


And Then the Cracking Ice

by furiedheart



Category: Chris Hemsworth - Fandom, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Chris does not ask Tom's permission every time they have sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hiddlesworth, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nursing Home AU, Smut, lots of looking at each other, no written contract for permission for sex, trigger warnings for Alzheimer's Disease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 06:58:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2219850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furiedheart/pseuds/furiedheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom's grandmother has Alzheimer's Disease. Chris works as a maintenance man in her nursing home. Tom tells his grandmother a white lie and Chris finds out. </p><p>“What in the bloody hell was that all about?” </p><p>Chris held his hands up, surprised by Tom’s sudden round about. But then his eyes narrowed and he smirked, taking a step in Tom’s direction. “You little liar,” he said.</p><p>Tom stepped back, keeping the same distance between them. “What? How dare you—.”</p><p>Chris kept advancing, smirk locked in place, and Tom found himself backed up to the dresser. Jewelry clinked and bottles of perfume rocked in place as he pressed back against it, eyes darting left and right, but there was no escape. Chris stopped just before him.</p><p>“Why are you lying to your grandmother.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone. So I took two weeks away from my other stories to write this one. It came to me suddenly late one night and after a frantic email to my beta I started to formulate how I would do this. I am in now way an expert on Alzheimer's Disease, but it features prominently in the storyline, and I hope I portrayed it respectfully. I intend no offense to anyone.  
> And yes, I totally made Chris a maintenance man. I couldn't help myself. Anyway, enjoy this new story and thanks for all your support!
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan. I love you so much. Thank you for all of your amazing help and encouragement <3 GUH.

Growing older had always been something of a fascination for Tom. At twenty-nine years himself, perhaps that might sound trite, but it wasn't necessarily a happy type of fascination, like one might marvel at the extended, but delicately pinned wings of a dead butterfly, at the powdered patterns like flakes of broken stained glass, deceased and unable to recall what had made its life worth living. No, it was more like examining the full bud of a bloomed rose, something still alive and thriving, at the peak of its beauty, already on the decline to an inevitable withering, a fraying around the edges, when black-edged cracks would web through the velvet petals, eager to consume and rot entirely.

Such had been his grandmother's beauty in her youth. A famous beauty, in fact, he'd often been told. And he had the photographs to prove it. Curling and yellow-edged, he kept these tokens, among others, high on his bookshelf in a small yellow box ringed with hand painted pale purple roses.

Quite the starlet, Patricia Vestey was the epitome of elegance, with lovely smooth skin and downturned blue eyes she kept striking with choice dark shadows and mascara; lips full and colored a dusky rose upturned at the corners gave the impression of a secret kept close. Her hair had been dark blonde and naturally curled, resting gently on her shoulders, giving her the oft difficult look of both sweet young girl and stunning temptress, reminiscent of a glamour that was long gone. Patricia had stepped away from her film career to start her family, and had been an active role model for Tom as he grew up. Tom still had the guest closet in his flat full of her beautiful gowns and dresses she’d acquired over the years from movie sets, including jeweled shoes, and feather-light scarves, as well as boxes of fan mail dated decades older. He'd inherited it all after his parents' sudden death six years before, including her care and well-being. But that wouldn’t come until much later.

He didn’t notice the decline in Patricia's mental health until it was far too late. His parents’ deaths had been devastating to him, and perhaps he should have paid more attention to the smaller things, like how often she'd forget her checkbook or how she’d insist that her doctor appointment was not _this_ Tuesday but _next_ , only to find out that the appointment had never been set in the first place, things that could easily be misinterpreted as daily lapses in memory, something everyone experienced from information overload or simple distraction. She, who had once been able to memorize entire movie scripts was suddenly confounded by the simplest turns on the pavements, looking around rather curiously, as if wondering however she had got there. With Tom's parents gone he and Patricia were all that were left of their small family, and he always felt he should have seen it, he should have known, should have paid closer attention.

His grandmother had always been his closest friend, as strange as that might sound from a person as young as he. After his mother and father died, especially, he had become even closer to her, only to feel the severe devastation of the early onset Alzheimer's three years later. Because it wasn't so much the instances where she 'misplaced' or ‘misremembered’ things that shocked him, it was when she would look at Tom, strangely inquisitive and ask, with a rather alarmed tone in her voice, "Yes? Can I help you?" Like she would a stranger, like she didn't know him at all.

They who had baked together every Sunday afternoon for the past decade, who liked to antique shop and visit the butterfly exhibit at the Natural History Museum or stroll the Physic Garden in Chelsea, where she always liked to tell him the story of how a small group of apothecaries had first established the gardens in 1673 for the study of medicinal plants, many of which she could name on sight. She, whom Tom had first came out to at the age of nineteen, all sweaty palms and stutters, who had hugged him immediately after his nervous confession and stroked his hair, telling him it was perfectly fine what he was, and that she would love him no less, had simply looked at him and not recognized the grandson she had helped raise.

Patricia was always a very independent woman, living alone ever since her husband’s death fifteen years prior, attending lunches with her friends, organizing charity auctions with her ladies group, or sitting by the Thames to feed the pigeons. When it became apparent that Patricia was not fit to live alone any longer, particularly after the incident with the oven—a friend of Patricia’s calling Tom in a panic one Tuesday morning, could he please come quick, that they needed him urgently, and he arrived to find Patricia’s lovely kitchen filled with swirling grey smoke, the fire alarm beeping obtrusively from down the hall, and Patricia standing there covered in flour and black smudges on her face looking at him with tears in her eyes, “It’s Sunday, Tom. Isn’t it Sunday?”—Tom had to make the painful decision to put her in an assisted living facility. He had no room for her in his small flat, and he worked long hour days, unable to dedicate the time necessary to keep her company or make her as relaxed as she needed. She was often confused by her recurring memory loss, the random and often startling moments of clarity where she remembered everything and everyone only to be replaced by the slightly vacant expression of someone who didn’t know where they were, all the more reason Tom felt he was unqualified to provide her the proper care, however much he desired to do so.

Coupled with his parents' deaths, it had all left Tom feeling vulnerable and extra protective over Patricia. If he wouldn’t be able to care for her in his home, then he would make sure she received the best care in a place designed for people like herself, particularly one that specialized in Alzheimer’s patients. After researching several places for her to stay, and taking lengthy tours of at least three of them, he’d finally chosen Summer Valley Home, an ancient Victorian house on a large, landscaped property converted into a grand and rather elegant assisted living facility on the north side of town. Set on ten acres of green land, it advertised a strong emphasis on independent living, where the residents would have a room to themselves, but have access to a full staff of ten nurses, two physical therapists, one psychiatrist, and a rotation of the same cleaning staff, electrician and maintenance workers, and landscape employees, so as not to upset the delicate reality any of the residents would have been working hard to preserve. Meals, however, would be served three times daily in the stately dining room, which put Tom's mind at ease regarding his grandmother's use of appliances to cook for herself. He didn’t want a repeat of the oven incident.

Indoor gym, heated swimming pool and shaded grounds all assured Tom that Patricia would receive more than enough physical exercise and fresh air that she enjoyed when living alone. It was a bit pricey, but he could afford it, and he only wanted the best for the most important woman in his life.

And so, for the past three years, Patricia had been living in Summer Valley, seemingly content with the friends she’d made there and the activities she participated in. More often than not, she appeared a bit flat, the usual spark that had livened her eyes and caused each beautiful smile all her life, gone dormant with the medication she was given and the gradual lapse in memory. She was still very warm and polite, friendly and somewhat outgoing, the product of her strict upbringing. If she was very confused by what she remembered versus what her therapists tried to tell her was the truth, she often retreated to her room to sit quietly by the window, the soft yellow walls and lace curtains meant to soothe her. It hurt Tom the most to see her like this, isolated and tearful. Most days he found her out on the grounds walking with some girlfriends, or on the treadmill, a soap opera playing on the corner TV. But when he would visit her and she was by the window, a crocheted blanket over her knees, he knew it would be a sad day.

Because of his work schedule, he was only able to see her on Saturdays and Sundays, where he would spend most of the day with her, taking her on her walks, listening as she described the crafts they’d made and the movies they’d watched. Sometimes, the staff played a few of her more well-known movies, the white and black outlining his grandmother’s stark beauty as a young woman, her voice low and husky as she strode through the scene, captivating audiences for the few short years she was in filmmaking. It was hard to tell if she recognized herself, sitting there in the darkened room, the movie displayed over everyone’s heads on an older model projector, dust motes floating through the light. But sometimes the random fan letters she still received, either from young people who had recently discovered her work or older gents who were fans from the beginning, sparked a memory, and Tom left these lying about her room, hoping to inspire more recollections.

There was an unexpected perk to Patricia’s move to Summer Valley that brightened the darkening tone their lives had taken. When Tom visited his grandmother, it was also the only time he could catch sight of Chris, the maintenance worker and electrician on staff for Summer Valley. The first time Tom had seen Chris was when he was helping to move his grandmother’s things into her new room. It was only a handful of boxes, her wardrobe, and her many books. She had stayed behind at the house with a friend who would watch her for the afternoon while he moved her in, so Tom was able to work diligently and quietly, without interruption, as he folded all of her clothes into new drawers, hung her dresses into the new closet, and arranged her perfumes and combs and makeup over the new vanity. He’d brought her favorite quilts and blankets, spreading them out on her new bed. The facility allowed residents to have picture frames of family on the walls, so he hammered those in, leaving photo albums on her bedside table and the journal she liked to write in at night.

Chris had nothing to do with Tom’s decision to put her in Summer Valley, but every new glimpse of the man made him thank his lucky stars that he had. Chris was tall, even taller than Tom, and broad-shouldered. Straight blond hair in a ponytail, jeans and an assortment of checkered flannel shirts and a tool belt, completed the lovely image of Electrician At Work. From what Tom could tell, Chris fixed everything. From plumbing and light switches and malfunctioning lawn sprinklers, to cleaning the highest light fixtures and leveling the pool’s chemicals and righting uneven hand rails, to periodically scooping leaves and other debris from the rain gutters lining the roof. Chris was their jack-of-all-trades, and all of the residents seemed to adore him. Tom had witnessed more than one occasion when the residents tossed warm gazes Chris's way, or patted his arm as they passed him in the hallway. Besides his helpfulness around the property, Tom could see why Chris attracted the residents' smiles and attention. He was lovely, in a rugged windswept kind of way, all light scruff on his jaw and lazy blue eyes, impossibly so, like a Robin’s egg. His ponytail was usually messy, his jeans were stained, his fingers smudged with grime, but he always had the widest smile on his face, his downturned eyes ringed with thick full lashes. The first time Tom had seen him, Chris had been on a ladder in the main lobby entrance, stretching up to a high chandelier, a nervous-looking director standing beneath him, holding the legs of the ladder and muttering to be careful, to not fall. Tom had paused to watch, Chris’s big hands moving slowly and delicately to untwist the burned out light bulb and screw on a brand new one. The light sparked on, bright and blinding, and Chris had started the climb down, the director looking relieved and less harried.

As Chris stepped from the last rung of the ladder, Tom had cleared his throat and hurried away before Chris spotted him gawking, but Tom found himself thinking the rest of the day of the way Chris had looked in those jeans reaching high on that ladder. Whenever he visited now, he searched Chris out, always a head taller than everyone else, his blond head a vision in a sea of grey. Tom, in all his bashfulness, hoped he ducked away in time before Chris became aware of his scrutiny.

One Saturday morning, Tom went for a run before visiting with his grandmother. He had a light breakfast and showered, dressing in dark blue jeans with a black jumper over a white T-shirt. He stopped by the bakery and bought his grandmother’s favorite pastry with a cup of hot chamomile tea.

“Good morning, Tess,” he told the receptionist at the front desk of Summer Valley, smiling at her.

“Good morning, Tom,” she replied. “Patricia’s in her room today.”

Tom stopped short. “Bad day?”

Tess shrugged, shaking her head. “It was hard to tell. She seemed in good spirits when she walked in about a half hour ago. I think it’s the chilly weather that’s kept her inside today.”

His heart loosened, and he thanked her. Patricia’s room was tucked into a short hallway with two other neighbors bracketing her. In total, there were twenty residents in the facility, and Tom thought that was a good number to work with, not overcrowded or reason for lack of association with others.

Cradling the box with the pastry in one arm, he knocked softly, and heard her answer from inside.

“Good morning, Gran,” he said, walking in and leaving the door propped open behind him. She turned in her seat by the window.

“Oh, hello,” she said, a bit uncertainly, and Tom knew that she didn’t recognize him. He put the tea and pastry box on the center table and dropped his bag on the extra chair. 

“How are you today, Gran? Feeling okay?”

He stooped down to kiss her cheek, and she offered it shyly, flicking her eyes to look him over.

“Yes…I’m quite well today. Weather’s a bit spotty. Too cool for my taste. I prefer it in here.”

He smiled and sat in the chair beside her. “Good. I brought you your favorite Danish. And some tea.”

“My favorite…Danish?”

“Yes. Do you remember which one?”

She frowned. “The…apple?”

He’d brought her a cherry Danish.

“Not quite, although I know you do like the apple ones. Your favorite, however, is the cherry Danish.”

“Oh.” She sat back and folder her hands over her lap. Peering at him over her glasses, she said, “You look very familiar. Do I know you?”

His stomach clamped up. It always did for this conversation. “Yes. My name is Tom. I’m your grandson.”

“My grandson. I have children?”

“You had one daughter. Diana. My mother.” He looked to the bedside table. “Here. Let me show you.” He retrieved the photo album and sat with her. They flipped through the pages, fingering each individual photo, he explaining who each person was, what was happening in the picture, where and when it had been taken.

“There you are,” she said suddenly, both surprised and pleased to have recognized him. The picture was of his graduation from university. In it, he was pressed in a tight squeeze between his mother and grandmother, his father having taken the picture.

“How old are you, then?” she asked.

“I’ll turn thirty in February,” he said, and she hummed. He put her pastry on a small plate and set it before her with her tea. In an exercise he knew her therapist encouraged her to do, Patricia asked Tom to tell her stories of their family, of himself and how they used to spend time together. Tom told her all about the butterflies and the gardens and the Thames and their Sunday baking time. She grew misty-eyed as she listened, hand on her chin, and Tom wasn’t sure it was because she remembered or because she wished she could. It was probably the latter.

“And are you married? Is there a lucky girl I should meet?”

She said this kindly and with a smile, her eyes glittering in anticipation. But Tom’s heart always fell. This wasn’t the first time she asked about whether or not he was dating anyone, but she always asked about girls. She never remembered that he was gay. And he had had to come out to her more than once.

“No, Gran. There’s no girl.”

She sat back, clearly astonished. “A handsome young man like yourself, I just don’t believe it.”

He smiled and ducked his head. “Thanks, Gran. But I’m actually not interested in women. I like men instead.”

Her brows puckered and she held still. “Oh. Oh, I see.” She turned away, deep in thought. “I knew someone once who had told me something like that. A long time ago it seemed. I can’t remember who.”

Tom sighed and nodded quietly, picking up her empty plate and cup and taking them into the hallway, slipping back inside quickly after spotting Chris down the hall fixing a doorknob.

**

“But are you seeing anyone, then?” his Gran asked during another visit. They were sitting on the stone bench under the great weeping willow and Tom had just come out to her again. Only now she was curious if he was dating a nice young _man_.

“No, actually, I’m not. Haven’t the time, I suppose.”

But Tom knew that if he were to ever date someone seriously, he would make the time for him. He dedicated himself so much to work because he wasn’t romantically involved with anyone, and with his Gran busy with activities at Summer Valley during the week when he worked long hours and his weekends spent by her side, Tom didn’t know how he would be able to get to know someone with his current schedule.

Perhaps it was best to keep finding the small moments to stare after a certain electrician, watch after his tall figure walking down the halls, tape measure in hand, tool belt creaking with each step, resigned to the fact that he would probably never get the chance to know the feel of those arms around him.

“Now that’s just a shame!” she said, shaking her head. Her favorite pair of pearl earrings winked at him from behind her curled hair. “You must make the time, Tom. You’re only young once. Live now. Trust me, you won’t regret it.”

He sat back against the bench, the long dangling branches of the willow swaying in a circle around them, cocooning them in their green depths. “Yes,” he murmured. “I suppose you’re right.”

**

“But are you seeing anyone, Tom?” she asked the next weekend. She had her arm through his and they were walking up the path from the rose garden. She had on a heavy shawl and her feet were wrapped in thick stockings. Her slippers, wide but still delicate with their jewel design, made soft _swish_ noises beside his more firm footsteps.

Under the back veranda, he watched Chris balancing once again on a ladder, hammering at a board, the sound echoing over the grounds, startling a few birds from the giant willow tree. On the ground below him were cans of paint, fresh brushes beside them. Tom sincerely hoped the man wouldn’t topple over one of these days and break that lovely neck.

“Tom?”

“Hmm?” he said, bending his head to her. “I’m so sorry. What did you ask?”

She laughed, a high sound like a bell that Tom more than suspected had men flocking to her in droves when she was younger. “I asked if you were seeing someone?”

“Oh,” he said, straightening. The sun was sinking behind the great house and he narrowed his eyes, trying to find Chris again. In the deeper shade of the veranda, he spotted him, climbing down the rungs, one by one. The land sounded empty and ringing without the pounding of the hammer.

“Yes,” he heard himself say, as if from a distance. “I am seeing someone.”

“Oh! Do tell me his name. Don’t keep an old lady like me waiting.”

He laughed, a bit shakily, and patted her hand. “Well,” he started, feeling like a terrible fool, but unable to deny that great leap his heart made at the white lie. “His name is Chris. And he’s simply…wonderful.”

She sighed and shuffled along beside him. “Short for Christopher, I imagine? Or Christoph? I knew a Christoph as a young girl. Determined little thing,” she laughed. “German, I think.”

“Yes, Christopher,” he murmured, wondering if it were true. Most likely it was Christopher.

“That’s simply lovely,” Patricia said. “You deserve a love of your own.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, tearing his eyes from Chris across the way. “I’m very happy with him.”

He helped her inside the house and led her to her room, where he helped remove her shawl and ankle-length stockings.

“Eh, hello,” she said suddenly, and Tom looked up. Patricia had her hand to her chest and was blinking around the room and then down at him. “Can I help you?”

Tom sat back on his heels and tried to swallow back the lump in his throat. Tears stung his eyes but he blinked them away quickly. He put a smile on his face.

“I was just leaving. Would you like anything else before I go?”

“Yes, young man, would you bring me some tea? The Earl Grey? I thank you.”

“Of course,” he said and straightened. Making sure her room was in order and she was tucked comfortably in bed, he went down the hall to the small kitchen behind the nurse's station and prepared her a chamomile tea. She had never liked Earl Grey, but she of course, wouldn’t know that. Tom stirred her tea, feeling bad about lying to her about his imaginary relationship with Chris, but he found himself reliving some of the feelings it had given him, this small fantasy, before he shut off the light and went back to her room.

**

Chris held his legs tight, reaching to the left to hammer in the final nail to the new board for the veranda. He was inspecting his work, running his hands over the head of the nail to make sure it had gone in smoothly and flush, when he heard the laughter, like bells in the wind. He turned and saw two figures walking along the path from the gardens. A tiny woman in an oversized purple shawl held tight to the arm of a younger man beside her. Chris shielded his eyes, trying to see past the sun’s final rays, but all he could tell was the man was tall with tight blond curls. He climbed down the ladder and turned, catching sight of their progress up the ramp to the back entrance, where they entered and disappeared from view.

Chris recognized the pair. The woman’s name was Patricia, and she was one of nine residents who lived in the Alzheimer’s wing. The young man he’d seen around a few times, and Chris figured he was her grandson. They spent most of their time in the woman’s room, where he often heard them talking quietly through the door they'd left ajar. Or other times they liked to take walks, like now, or sit out in the gardens. When the young man wasn’t with her, Patricia spent time in the crafts room, knitting or slowly putting together some kind of scrapbook. She liked the treadmill, walking on it very slowly, hands gripping the bars, humming some soft song as she watched the program on the television anchored to the high corner. She only swam in the pool when a few of her girlfriends were with her, and Chris had the impression that clustering together like that was something women did their whole lives.

But Chris had caught the man looking at him a few times, often when Chris had been busy with something, like changing a light bulb or fixing a loose door handle. He was quick to disappear, those sharp cheekbones pink with something that greatly resembled blushing. For three years it had seemed they’d skirted around each other, the man staring and Chris catching him. Chris never saw him during the week. It was only on Saturdays and Sundays that the man shadowed his grandmother’s every move, bringing her treats in a small green box, or a wrapped gift of some kind, things Chris imagined were scarves or perfume or books.

From what he could tell, the woman’s room was filled with books, but put away neatly and without clutter, in shelves or stacked in two’s and three’s on the center table. Chris never had a reason to enter the woman’s room, never had a complaint of a loose board or a leaky ceiling or a dripping faucet. Old houses like that great Victorian always needed something fixed, which is why he was hired on full-time. He always had something to do somewhere, and was sometimes called in on his time off. But Chris didn’t mind. He lived alone six miles from the facility, and he had a soft spot in his heart for the old ones, so gentle and soft-spoken, relics of a much more reformed time, a polite and refined generation, dying out, often forgotten before they were gone.

Still, he wondered at what Patricia’s grandson’s name was, what he did with his time away from the facility. Because the fact was, Chris looked forward to the weekends when he might catch a glimpse of her grandson, those golden curls and pixyish face, all breathy laughs and kind smiles. Chris liked to watch him, too, but was never caught by the man, like he would often catch him looking at Chris. And there was something endearing in how flustered he got, ducking his head down, slipping back into his grandmother’s room like that would save him from the knowledge that they had made eye contact and that it had felt wonderful. Surely, the blushes and the scurrying meant the man had felt the same?

Either way, Chris was done feeling like he was being tiptoed around. He sat down on the edge of the veranda and pulled out his planner from his work bag, flipping toward the week ahead, already planning an inspection of all of the residents’ rooms.

**

“And then what happened?” Patricia asked, as Tom bent over her toenails, polish brush hovering in the air.

He paused and looked up. “Well, we took a trip on The Eye and he held my hand. I get a bit squeamish with heights.”

Patricia clasped her hands together. “So sweet of Chris. He likes you very much.”

Tom blushed and set back to work on her toes. The bright red color looked lovely on her pale skin, her plump feet so soft like velvet.

“You know, I don’t believe you’ve ever told me what he looks like. Or what he does for work.”

Tom capped the bottle of polish and set it aside. The fact was that he had told his grandmother multiple times what Chris looked like and where he worked. His white lie had started to fold in on itself, becoming more intricate and intractable with each telling. After explaining once again that he was gay and that his boyfriend’s name was Chris and that Chris was an electrician and that he worked at Summer Valley, Tom often began telling detailed stories about their ‘dates’ and where he and Chris went sightseeing or what movies they would watch together, where they would eat, what sweet gifts Chris would bring home to him. To his great shame, he started to count on her forgetting it all, so that he might recount it the next week, ready to soak in her excitement all over again. She was his great confidant, and she wouldn’t remember a thing.

He kept telling himself that the next time he would be honest with her when her inevitable question of his love life popped up. That he would tell her there was no sweet young woman and just leave it at that, no great confession, no even greater white lie. He remembered in vivid detail the first time he came out to her ten years ago, her warm and adoring acceptance, her assurance that nothing would ever change, that she would love him forever. He didn’t need to hear it again, especially as her confusion seemed to be becoming more frequent, and explanations as to the why were becoming harder for him. It would be best to leave well enough alone and drop his tiny delusion, letting his stories of Chris and how much they loved each other sink through the cracks of her memory until she recalled them no longer.

“Where he works?” he said, bringing himself out of his thoughts. “He works as an electrician. In a place called Summer Valley.” He slid his thumbnail around her big toe, collecting the excess polish and hating himself.

She frowned, tilting her head. “Summer Valley. Sounds so familiar.” She sighed and touched her cheek. “And his name is…Christoph? You know, I knew a Christoph when I was a young girl. Determined little thing.”

“Yes, Gran,” Tom said gently. “His name is Christoph. I think the polish on your toes is dry. Ready for your walk now?” He helped her to her feet and put her shawl over her shoulders, taking her hand and leading her to the door.

**

Chris had his room inspection plan approved by the director and scheduled for the next Monday. It would take the better part of the next two weeks to complete. He’d been meaning to do one anyway, but his curiosity about the woman’s grandson had him hurrying his decision. In every room, he checked the window locks and the light bulbs and oiled closet door hinges and checked the ceilings for leaks and crawled over the floorboards looking for any uneven dips or upturned corners, inspected inside the toilet tanks and behind the sinks for any telltale signs of water damage. He was especially careful looking for any cracked tiles in the bathroom or loose shower rails. The old folks usually thanked him with small baggies of cookies or knitted socks that he carefully packed into his knapsack and carried home.

When he knocked at Patricia’s room, he waited until her small voice bade him enter.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Vestey. How are you today?”

She was seated at the corner of her bed, flipping through a photo album. Her eyes, when she looked at him, were a clear blue and unnervingly beautiful, somehow not fitting in with the rest of her.

“Hello,” she said softly, taking her glasses and pushing them over her nose. She peered a bit worriedly at him, and he made sure to stand far enough back so as not to alarm her.

“I’m Chris. I fix things around here. I’m just going to give your room an inspection, make sure everything’s in tip top shape. Would it be alright if I looked around?”

Her face brightened. “Oh! Yes, of course. Please do. I’m sorry if there’s any mess.” She gestured to the room, but all he saw was a setting that could have come straight out of any home décor catalog, everything so neat and proper.

“It’s all fine,” he assured her, smiling gently. He caught sight of some framed photographs on the wall and standing freely on a side table. Heading toward her window, he bent low and looked down at one, seeing Patricia with another older woman and a boy who was unmistakably the young man who visited her every weekend. He was wearing a cap and gown and had his arms wrapped around both of the women, one of whom must be his mother. The similarities in their features was startling. All had the same bright blue eyes, blond hair and lean faces, sharp angles and clear skin. The more he looked around, the more he started seeing evidence of the young man’s presence in her room. A navy zip up jacket, clearly not hers, was flung over the back of a chair. His face smiled out at Chris from nearly every picture and nearly every age. A note left on her dresser written in a short masculine hand addressed Patricia, reminding her of her medication and that he would be by to see her on Saturday. The note was signed ‘Tom’.

Glancing around again, Chris set to work, starting with her bathroom and then the windows in her main room; next was her closet, ceiling, floorboards. He was checking the light bulbs in her chandelier when she suddenly asked, “Chris. Is that short for something?”

Keeping his arms raised, he peered down at her. “Say again?”

“Your name…it’s not short for Christoph, is it?”

He chuckled. That was the first time he’d heard that name. “No. Just Christopher.”

She nodded and kept looking through her photo album, her face scrunched up delicately, as if thinking on something. She mumbled to herself something that sounded a lot like, "German, wasn't he? Or maybe Australian...now that I hear it again."

“What do you have there?” he asked, hoping she might invite him to see more photographs of Tom. He wasn’t disappointed.

She flipped another page. “Come down and look.” He left the chandelier alone immediately and climbed down the ladder. He sat beside her. “I like to see these now and again. Dr. Charles said that these would help us to keep the memories we have. And I try to identify when I might be…slipping away. But it’s not something I can always control.”

Chris nodded, feeling his heart twist at how terribly helpless she, and all the people in this great house, must often feel with their deteriorating minds.

“It’s good to see pictures of family,” she said, filling the silence that followed.

She was so tiny, and frail, sitting there in her slippers and shawl. How devastating, he thought, knowing what made her _her_ might at any moment be gone, only a crippling fear and confusion left in its wake.

“What are their names?” he asked, pointing to a picture of her with three other people. He recognized Tom immediately.

“This here is my daughter, Diana. Lovely little darling, she was. All wheat colored hair and this chirrupy laugh. And this is her husband, James. He’s a chemist and just brilliant. I expect they’ll visit any day now.”

Chris hesitated. He’d never seen anyone other than Tom come visit her, and he wondered what the story was behind that. “And this here?” he said, pointing at Tom.

Her face softened and she touched the picture fondly. “This is my grandson. My boy. Tom. Such a lovely young man. I adore him.” Chris smiled, nodding. But then his smile faded away, watching with quiet alarm how her features changed slightly, her brows drawing together, fingers tightening over the photo album. “At least…I—I think I have a grandson. But I’m not…I—I don't—.”

She looked to him, eyes heavy with pending panic, and he jumped in fast. “Sure you do. I see him here every weekend. Tall lad, isn’t he?”

She nodded, hesitating somewhat, still not convinced.

“He comes here in the morning and doesn’t leave until late afternoon. You go on walks, and he takes you to the gardens. Sometimes he helps you on the treadmill. You remember that, don’t you?”

She touched her lips gently, wondering. “Yes…I—I believe I do.” She grew quiet then, pulling the photo album close to her, hands back on her grandson’s face. Chris felt it was time to go. He stood.

“Everything looks in good order here. Is there anything else I can help you with before I go?” he asked quietly.

“No. No, I think I’m quite alright. Thank you…?”

“Chris. My name is Chris. Please don’t hesitate to find me if you need anything at all.” He smiled and then bent to collect his tools and fold the ladder in half.

“Chris,” she said suddenly, back straightening slightly. “Is that short for something? Is it short for Christoph?”

He stood in the middle of her room, a great feeling of sadness falling over him. “No,” he said, hoping for cheerful. “Just Christopher. But you can call me Chris.”

She smiled and held the album to her bosom. “You know, my grandson’s boyfriend is named Chris.”

Chris felt his smile start to fade. Tom had a boyfriend? “Oh, really?” he managed to say.

“Yes,” she went on, unaware of his growing discomfort. “He’s an electrician in a place called Summer Valley.”

Chris froze, his heart pounding fast. “An electrician in Summer Valley,” he repeated, rather uselessly.

“Although for the life of me, I can’t seem to recall where I’ve heard that name before.” She peered at him over her spectacles. “Now that I think about it, you look a lot like he described. Is your name Chris?”

He found himself nodding. “Yes. I’m an electrician for Summer Valley.”

She set her album aside with a quiet exclamation. “Are you my Tom’s boyfriend?”

Chris set his ladder down and finished adjusting his tool belt. And then he knelt before her. “I am. I’m Tom’s boyfriend. It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Mrs. Vestey.”

Smiling wide, she took his hands. “What a beauty you are. He goes on about how strong you are, your long hair, that sweet smile of yours. I can see now what he meant.”

Heat flushed up his neck and Chris looked down, unaccustomed to being praised so openly.

“I think he…left me a note somewhere,” she said, looking around.

He jumped to his feet and retrieved the note from the dresser.

“Ah yes," she said, slipping her glasses down her nose. “He’ll be here Saturday. Will you come by too, Christoph?”

“I would love to, Mrs. Vestey.”

“Please. Mrs. Vestey reminds me of my mother-in-law. Call me Patricia.”

He delicately shook her offered hand and nodded. “See you on Saturday, Patricia.”

Chris left her sitting on her bed, and as he closed the door behind him, she opened up her photo album and started flipping through its well-worn pages.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan <3

Tom woke Saturday morning, neck stiff, bent crooked on the sofa with something of a hangover pounding behind his eyes. He'd drank one too many glasses of wine the night before, alone in his darkened living room, old home movies playing on the television. The one he'd fallen asleep watching was of the trip he'd taken with his parents the year he'd turned eighteen. They'd visited California, his first and only time in the States, and he could still remember the warmth of the sun on his face as he stood on that pier in that city he could no longer recall, named after some saint. The sun shone differently there, he decided, much stronger, settling more evenly on his skin. Here, the sun came out in spotty shafts of light from behind ever-present clouds, misty rain soaking through everything. In California, and what he figured was true of the entire west coast of the United States, warmth was prevalent, something that could be counted on, unlike the general misery the UK endured most of the year, everything sopping and chilled.

The television screen was bright blue, the video cassette run to its end and trying to loop back to the beginning. With a groan, he rubbed at his eyes and turned the power off with the remote. The room was cast into a grey gloom, the sun only minutes from fully rising. His flat was of ample size, comfortable for just him. It was simple, with lots of greys and blacks and whites, with the only spots of bright color from the flowers. On the center table, he liked to keep fresh flowers in the maroon vase his mother had brought home for him from Oaxaca in deep Mexico. Following her example, he’d over the years accumulated a handful of variously sized vases, which he kept all over the flat, fresh flowers tilting heavily in them. In the corner by the front window, there was a sleek black five-shelf bookcase, filled with history and architecture books, autobiographies and select fiction and drama pieces, things that kept him focused, kept him grounded, kept him smiling in some way.

He sighed. He had planned on running that morning, but his limbs and neck protested even the slightest movement. He was only twenty-nine, and already his body fought him in ways it hadn't ten years before.

Outside, a light rain had started, and he sat with his back against the cushions, head turned to watch the drops hit the window. His stomach grumbled, but still he hesitated, blinking slowly, wondering when exactly his life had dipped so low, so bereft of company and affection, of love. His grandmother had never ceased loving him, he knew, even if his heart stung every time she looked at him in question. He hadn't, for whatever reason, fostered any kind of relationships with people his own age, having always been friends with his grandmother and her friends, tagging along with her to crochet circles and reading groups at the library, or church functions and fundraisers at the senior center. Every now and then, she was invited to attend a film gala where actors of her generation were being honored. Tom, of late, had had to decline any recent invitations to such events, worried his grandmother would become too confused and agitated, even slightly hostile at one point, fending off what she had presumed were complete strangers.

And so he sat there on his couch, watching the rain fall steadily, the sun now lost behind the cloud bank. His work as an architect was rather solitary as well, taking on only small projects that would leave his weekends free, sending over drawn up plans to the company he worked for. He did good work, solid work, creative and unique work, or so he had been told, which is why they abided by his introverted tendencies. And he was so lonely, often filling the silences of his house with scratchy speeches from long dead American Presidents and British Prime Ministers. If he did listen to music, it was classical, favoring the deep and hollow notes of a round-bellied cello to any other instrument. He would fold clothes and dry dishes listening to Bach's cello suites in D minor or recite along with Kennedy during the inaugural address of 1961. People didn’t speak like that anymore—“We dare not forget today that we are the heirs of that first revolution. Let the word go forth from this time and place, to friend and foe alike, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans”—the art of speech and rhetoric and the lilting cadences of a past group of people were becoming lost, slowly slipping away with each death of those whose bodies were tired and whose minds were fading.

But his laptop was too far away to remind him of an older time, and he had a heaviness in his bones that forced him to stay low on that couch, listen to the patter of rain on the panes of glass and the growing warmth of his own body. Tom slid a hand down his chest, his cotton shirt catching under his fingers, over his belt buckle to cup himself slowly. He was hot with the need, he could feel it, stiffening under his palm, his breath hitching as his jeans tented upward. With a flush on his face, he unzipped his pants and took himself in hand, which was dry and rough on his sensitive skin, but he didn’t care. He needed the touch, however brief, however unlike the one he desperately wanted, because one’s own touch was never _ever_ like someone else’s, but he would take it. This sloppy and quick tugging, his length like a burning brand in his cold hand, he would take it, imagining a much larger hand. Tom knew that hand would be rough with callouses, sunburnt and firm.

Tom braced against the back of the couch, setting his feet and tilting his hips, pretending there was a body over him, blocking the light from the window, and if he squinted his eyes just right, the vase of red and white flowers on the center table before him took on the wrinkled and checkered pattern of a flannel shirt.

He kept his palm loose so as not to chafe his cock, but he was close. He moaned and arched his back a bit, using his other hand to knead at his balls, imagining the silk trailing of straight blond hairs over his cheek. Two more pumps of his hand and he came, gushing all over the front of his shirt, teeth gritted to hold back a cry or someone’s name, he wasn’t sure, probably both. He swiped his thumb over the throbbing head, hissing at the almost painful rush of sensitivity that arced like lightning up his spine.

Panting, he lay flat against the cushions, squinting at the fresh beams of sunlight that filtered and burned through the lingering mist of rain. He pushed to his feet with a sigh, not bothering to buckle his jeans again, and slipped into his bathroom for a shower.

**

Traffic was bad and he arrived at Summer Valley twenty minutes late. He hoped his grandmother wouldn’t be worried, on the off chance that she remembered he was even visiting that day.

But he walked in carrying her favorite pastry and tea, knowing it would put a smile on her face. Plus routine was encouraged by the attending physician. As he greeted Tess and turned into his grandmother’s hallway, he paused just outside her door, frowning at the set of voices that floated from within. One was definitely Patricia’s, but the other was too low to make out, certainly not one of her girlfriends come to chat a bit. He knocked once, calling out a tentative, “Gran?” before stepping in.

He startled to a sudden stop, nearly dropping the cup of tea in his hands. Sitting in her usual spot in a chair by the window was his grandmother, and at her side, looking the picture of pure innocence, was Chris.

Tom gaped, eyes darting between the two, trying to make sense of the scene before him. Chris had never come into her room before, not even to fix anything much less to sit down and appear in the middle of some deep conversation with his grandmother. Yet here he was, in Tom’s spot, looking freshly shaven in dark blue jeans and a light beige jumper, which somehow accentuated his blond ponytail and blue eyes, now fixed on Tom, corners crinkling in a smile.

“What’s going on?” he managed, voice a low rasp.

Patricia turned.“Tom! Darling, come here now and sit with us. Put that down just over there,” she said, pointing to a side sofa out of the way. Mechanically, Tom did as he was told, dropping his gaze from Chris’s, feeling his cheeks warm incrementally. Bag put down and holding only the pastry box and tea, Tom approached their circle, taking the empty chair beside Chris, where he sat rather stiffly and leaning a bit away.

“What sort of way is that to greet people, Tom?” she chided gently, playfully, and it was such a sudden glimpse into how his grandmother used to be in the years before this disease took its claim over her mind and personality, that Tom jumped to his feet immediately, leaning over to kiss each cheek and squeeze her offered hand gently.

He sank back down in his seat, painfully aware of Chris beside him.

Patricia tsked and shook her head at him. “And Christoph? Is that how you greet your boyfriend?”

Tom blanched. “ _What_ —?”

Chris piped in for the first time. “It’s nothing to worry about, Patricia. Tom is just being proper.” And to Tom’s horror, he reached across their seats and lay his hand flat over Tom’s, tucking his fingers into the warmth of that wide palm. “Aren’t you, babe? Being proper?” he said softly, meeting Tom’s eyes. “How are you today, love?” Without waiting for an answer, Chris bent close and laid a lingering kiss on Tom’s cheek.

Frozen, heart pounding loudly in his ears, Tom could only stare, eyes half wild with disbelief, as the man backed away finally, the blue of his eyes catching electric in the light from the window behind them. Tom swallowed, feeling his face burn, realizing Chris still held his hand. He tried pulling away, discreetly, but Chris only smiled and tightened his grip.

Patricia smiled sweetly at them and then turned her gaze to the box on the table. “My cupcake!”

“It’s a Danish,” Tom whispered, licking his lips and tearing his gaze from Chris. “Cherry, do you remember?”

Her brows puckered. “Oh, yes…how silly of me.” She patted at her hair quickly, self-consciously.

“So what happened?” Chris prompted and she went on about some small joke her friend Amelie had played on one of the nurses—“You know Amelie, quite the prankster, that daredevil!”—while Tom continued to tug at his arm, his heart beating wildly in his throat.

It was surreal, and greatly infuriating, how calm Chris looked beside him, sitting back in his chair, practically lounging as he listened to Patricia tell her story, his great long arm stretched over their armrests and keeping Tom’s hand captive. With a silent huff, Tom gave up and sat back himself, feeling the trembling in his limbs and failing miserably to squash it. As if noticing Tom’s quiet resignation, Chris released his death grip and laced his fingers with Tom’s instead, soft and gentle. Tom had been right about Chris’s hands all along. They were bigger, with prominent veins and a light dusting of blond hairs. His skin was tanned and rough, and over his own palm he could feel the harder bumps of old callouses.

He stared down at them, their hands, enjoying the view immensely, even if this was all very untoward and unexpected and he needed to get to the bottom of it immediately. Still, he surprised himself by squeezing Chris’s fingers gently before he turned to look at the man and felt his cheeks flame anew at the small smile that twitched at Chris’s lips.

They spent the visit in such a manner, Tom fidgeting, Chris keeping him anchored, and Patricia oblivious to it all. There were moments when she started to slip, her thoughts becoming muddled, her sentences trailing into confused silences, and Tom tried his best to bring her back with careful prompting and questions. She kept referring to Chris as Christoph, but the man did nothing to correct her, only smiled and requested more stories.

When her nurse came in just before noon to accompany Patricia to her craft class, Tom’s palm was sweating and he was ready to jump out the window. He’d never been so uncomfortable in his life, and he felt terrible for being so distracted and vague with his grandmother. She was having a good day, and he would have really enjoyed spending time with her had it not been for the big ball of warmth sitting beside him. Chris radiated heat, and Tom more than once had to stop himself from leaning into him.

Usually, Tom joined Patricia in her craft class, helping her with cutting or holding things steady for her, but he let her and the nurse head to the class first, assuring her he would join her momentarily. As the nurse led her out, Tom smiled and waved before spinning and jabbing a finger in Chris’s chest.

“What in the bloody hell was that all about?”

Chris held his hands up, surprised by Tom’s sudden round about. But then his eyes narrowed and he smirked, taking a step in Tom’s direction. “You little liar,” he said.

Tom stepped back, keeping the same distance between them. “What? How dare you—.”

Chris kept advancing, smirk locked in place, and Tom found himself backed up to the dresser. Jewelry clinked and bottles of perfume rocked in place as he pressed back against it, eyes darting left and right, but there was no escape. Chris stopped just before him.

“Why are you lying to your grandmother.”

It wasn’t a question, and Tom gulped, hands gripping the edge of the dresser.

“I—I haven’t. What are you talking about? This is completely uncalled for—.”

“Are you calling her a liar, then?”

“No! Absolutely not!” Tom whispered. He straightened, feeling his neck flush in his anger. “What on earth has gotten into you? We’ve not spoken a single word to each other and you come in here playing some kind of sick game, pretending at being a couple and refusing to release my hand and then you have the audacity to accuse me of—.” He stopped suddenly. “Oh, dear god.”

Chris smiled, nodding.

Paling, Tom touched his chest. “What has she told you?”

“Oh, lots of things,” Chris said, smile widening. He stepped closer and Tom forced himself to stand fast. Chris looked him over, eyes lingering on Tom’s lips. “She said that her grandson—you—had a boyfriend named Chris. I was a bit disappointed, frankly, but then she said that Chris was an electrician at Summer Valley and well, I realized that you had been telling stories about me…haven’t you.”

Tom’s mind scrambled, overcome with a fresh wave of guilt so much stronger than the first time he’d told his grandmother about Chris. It began to creep in through the hollow spaces between his ribs, tightening his chest. Wait…Chris had been disappointed?

Tom shook his head, still adamant this was _not_ happening. He was still asleep back on his couch, and it was raining and he would wake at any moment.

“But you have,” Chris said, lifting one hand and cupping Tom’s elbow, warmth spreading past the tight weave of his jumper. “She said you told her all about our dates and my strength and my…beauty.”

“Please stop,” Tom gasped, leaning so far back over the dresser he would knock everything over with another inch. “I admit it! Okay? I admit it. Alright, just—please step back. You’re making me—.”

“Nervous?” Chris said, and then smiled, eyes softening. He took a step back and Tom clutched his own chest, finally feeling he could breathe. His eyes darted to the door.

Chris crossed his arms and waited. Escape was impossible.

“Uh,” Tom started, hesitating, not daring to look at the crisscross of veins in those forearms. “Listen, it wasn’t—I didn’t mean for it…Look, I’m sorry. I was stupid and I t-told her this…this white lie—.”

“About me?”

Tom’s jaw clenched. “ _Yes_.”

“But why?”

Tom ran a hand through his hair and noticed Chris noticing him. Fuck.

“Um. Well. It’s all complicated and rather embarrassing.”

“Try me.”

Sighing, resigned, Tom eased back onto the dresser and folded his arms over his stomach. “My grandmother has Alzheimer’s. She was diagnosed three years after my parents’ died. I came out to her at nineteen, before I came out to anyone. She said she would love me forever and that who I was wouldn’t change that. But with her disease, she forgets that I’m gay and most of what we’ve experienced together over the years is gone, too. We were very close, she and I, and it doesn’t hurt any less coming in here week after week knowing that she won’t remember my name or who I am or that I don’t have a lovely young girlfriend that she hasn’t met yet and I just…couldn’t take it anymore and a few weeks ago she asked me all about my love life again and we were outside walking and you were fixing something on the veranda and I saw you and I told her that I _did_ have a boyfriend and his name was Chris and for the life of me, I didn’t have any kind of expectation that she would remember anything of what I told her. If anything I thought I would return the next week and have her ask me what my _girl_ friend’s name was. I never expected to walk in here and have you take my hand and kiss my cheek and make me half insane with the belief that something in my world had gone absolutely off kilter without my having noticed and that I wasn’t at home still, asleep and that this was all a dream.”

He took a deep breath, suddenly aware of the tears in his eyes, his chest rising and falling in small bursts. Hugging himself, he went to the window, where the western grounds rose in soft hills, blanketed in green turf and big-canopied trees in the distance.

Footsteps behind him alerted him to Chris’s approach.

“I’m sorry,” he heard.

Tom scoffed lightly and brushed away an errant tear.

“What do you have to be sorry for? You’re not the one that lied to a tiny old woman in a pathetic attempt to make someone believe he was capable of love.”

“Are you?” Tom turned. “What?”

“Are you capable of love?”

He blinked, and then faced the window again. “It just—I can hardly…really, what kind of question is that. Don’t listen to me.”

He felt Chris behind him, could feel that heat.

“I just meant that I’m sorry you feel hurt over your grandmother’s decline,” Chris said softly.

“Please,” Tom said, rubbing at his eyes. “Don’t be. None of it is your, or anyone’s, fault. I—I have to go.” He stepped around Chris, careful not to touch him and grabbed his bag from the side sofa.

“You’re not going to stay with Patricia?” Chris asked, tailing him.

“I’ve made a bit of a fool of myself and only wish to be alone now. I’ll be back tomorrow. You can tell her that. Or not. Doesn’t matter. She probably won’t remember anyway.” He slung his bag over his shoulder and pushed past Chris and out the door. He hurried down the hall, vision blurred by more tears, counting his steps to the exit, willing himself not to turn around to see if Chris had followed him out. He had the disheartening suspicion that he wouldn't. Bitterly enraged at himself, Tom flung his bag into the backseat of his car and turned the ignition, pulling out and driving away.

**

Chris stood outside Patricia’s room and watched Tom go, shoulders hunched over, pushing through the exit and disappearing into the mist. His stomach clenched, realizing what a right prick he'd been. Of course Tom would feel embarrassed about the whole thing. He'd been caught in a lie, a rather harmless lie, really. What had started out as a half joke for Chris ended with Tom's feelings hurt. In all honesty, Chris had thought the entire thing was cute, endearing even, that Tom would make stories up about having a 'relationship' with Chris. It showed he probably liked Chris just as much as he liked Tom.

But now Tom was gone in a tearful hurry and Chris was left behind feeling like a prat.

"Shit," he muttered, running a hand over his hair. This wasn't how he imagined it would turn out. If anything, he imagined he and Tom would laugh about the whole thing and this very moment be pressed up against the wall outside, kissing and clinging, promising to be a couple for real and not just for the sake of an old lady's memory.

Tom was long gone by now, having cut short what Chris knew would have been a whole day visit. He turned on his heel and went in search of Patricia in the crafts room.

**

In the morning, Chris lay in bed for a good half hour, trying to will his erection down but it stayed, insistent, until he scrambled up with a growl to take a cold shower. He couldn't think about Tom for his own pleasure just now, not like he had been doing for a while. It didn't feel right. Chris, however unintentionally, had hurt Tom and he felt sick to his stomach just thinking about it.

He went for a run after his shower, realizing how stupid the order of his morning was turning out to be, and after his second shower and breakfast, his phone rang.

It was the director of Summer Valley, asking if Chris could come by to inspect the heater for the pool. The water was still icy cold and the residents were waiting to see if they could swim. Chris assured him he would be right there, and went to collect his tools.

After he fixed the heater—it was a simple matter of loosening the valve over the pump system in the outdoor shed—he was wandering back up the hallway when he saw Patricia standing outside her room, looking both ways, hands clasped and wringing.

"Hi Patricia," he said in greeting, approaching her.

She turned at her name and widened her eyes, stepping back. It reminded Chris so much of how Tom had done nearly the exact thing the day before that Chris stopped dead in his tracks, stomach sinking.

"Are you okay, Patricia? Is there anything I can get you?"

"Oh," she said, trying to look around him at the hallway beyond. "No. I'm just...I think someone was supposed to—to visit. And I just...I can't remember who. But," she shook her head, touching her chin with shaking fingers. "Something's just not right. I can feel it."

He raised a hand and took a step closer. "It's alright. Everything's okay. Where's Tom gone to?"

"Tom?" She shook her head. "I'm sure I don't know who you mean. I got up this morning and dressed and sat by my window, waiting. I was positive that...well, I had been so sure that someone would... _be here_." Her voice was rising and she started pacing in the small space before her door. Chris put his tools down.

"Shh, shh, it's all going to be okay. Take a deep breath with me," he said, taking another cautious step in her direction. She kept her eyes—so much like Tom's—fixed on his face, and inhaled as he inhaled, following his instructions. "Good. That's good, Patricia. See, Tom was supposed to be here. He visits you every Saturday and Sunday. You're telling me he hasn't arrived yet?" It was almost noon, Chris realized. Tom should have been here by now.

"Who is Tom?" Patricia said, voice a forced whisper, as if mentally checking over a list someone—probably her doctor—had suggested she refer to in times like these. "No one's been here. I've had no visitors today. But something doesn't feel right and I'm beginning to feel quite agitated!"

Chris glanced up the empty hall, hoping a nurse would pass by. "Okay, this is what we're going to do," he started, slowly taking her hand. She let him, watching him with wide eyes as he talked. "I'm going to help you back into your room. We can sit by the window like we did before. Do you remember? And just talk? And then—."

Her mouth parted in a quiet exclamation. She clutched his arm. "Christoph?"

Oh boy.

Chris guided her inside. "Well, not quite. But you can call me Christoph, if you'd like. It's no problem."

" _Oh_ ," she cried, eyes brimming with frustrated tears, as if she knew he was only humoring her.

"Tell me about Christoph. What was he like?" he asked, bringing her round the middle table to sit before the window. She sank into her chair and wiped at her soft cheeks.

"Christoph was...he was just a man I knew," she murmured, slumping back in her seat. "Just a man."

Chris draped a blanket over her knees and stood by for a few moments, but when it was apparent she fell into a light doze, he rushed from the room and closed the door with a soft click. He picked up his tools from the floor and hurried to the nurse's station. There was no one behind the desk, so Chris walked around it and to the closed door in the corner. That was where the files from every patient were kept, with records of their families. He found Patricia's quickly and flipped through the pages searching for emergency contact information. There he read Tom Hiddleston, grandson, with a phone number and home address. Chris committed it to memory and then filed the folder away. Slipping out, he dialed Tom's phone number into his cell phone and headed to his truck just outside the east entrance.

It rang and rang until finally Tom's voice broke over the speaker, asking to please leave a message. Chris cursed and pulled out of his spot. It took ten minutes to reach Tom’s flat, a small brown corner unit that faced a tiny but flowery copse. He ran to the door and knocked. When there was no answer after a minute, he backtracked and peered in through the front window. There, lying tumbled on his side on the sofa, was Tom. He was still dressed in the jeans and jumper he’d been wearing the day before, when he’d stormed out of Summer Valley. An empty glass of wine rested on the carpet, toppled on its side. On the center table before Tom stood a dark green bottle, half empty. Moving lights flickered over Tom’s form and Chris figured a television was on, but from where he stood he couldn’t see one.

“Hey,” Chris called, rapping on the window. “Tom! Hey, can you hear me?”

Tom didn’t move, and Chris felt a sudden spiral of anger curl in his gut. There was a very nice old lady back at the big house waiting for her grandson to visit her and here he was, passed out from drinking. How thoughtful of him.

“Hey!” he yelled a bit louder, pounding a fist on the thick pane of glass. “Wake up!”

Tom’s hand twitched, and then he jerked, rolling onto his back. Chris knocked again and Tom sprang up, losing his balance and stumbling to the floor. His eyes were half closed as he rose to his hands and knees, looking every which way, probably seeing nothing. His blond curls were tangled, standing up in adorable tufts.

“Open the door!” Chris called, ignoring his cute hair and waving his arms to get the man’s attention. Tom, squinting, finally caught sight of him at the window and rubbed his eyes, comically, before looking again. His eyes widened and he lurched to his feet.

Chris trudged back to the front door and waited. He could hear movement on the other side.

And then a tiny voice quiet and muffled. “What do you want?”

Chris imagined Tom pressed up against the door, eye flattened to the peep hole. He sighed and put his hands on his hips.

“Where’ve you been, mate? Your grandmother is worried sick over you.”

Silence on the other side. And then, “What time is it?”

Chris checked his phone. “Twelve twenty eight.”

A quick curse and then a bolt sliding. Tom yanked the door open and stood there before Chris, looking pale and wild eyed.

“Twelve fucking thirty?”

Chris smiled tightly. “Yeah.” Tom sagged against the doorframe, rubbing his face. The skin under his eyes was bruised and he looked beat, exhausted.

“Are you alright?” Chris asked, wanting to reach over and pull Tom to his chest, to let him rest there.

“God, I lost track of the time and must have slept through my alarm.” Tom shrugged. “That’s never happened before.”

“Were you drinking alone?” Chris knew it was none of his business, but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to know if this beautiful man really had spent the night alone, drinking of all things, or worse, if someone had been with him. Chris himself never touched the stuff, but sometimes people needed the escape. He understood that.

Tom glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the living room, but only barely. He turned back, tired eyes blinking dimly at something behind Chris. “I know it looks bad, but this is only the second time it’s happened.”

“Drinking alone?”

“That. And falling asleep while watching the videos.”

“Videos?”

Tom straightened with a quiet groan and then waved Chris inside. His flat was neat and clean, everything in its place. So maybe Tom really wasn’t a drunk. It must have shown on his face, because Tom smiled.

“Did you think I was some sort of lush, or something?” He fell back onto the cushions and curled his legs under him. His eyes were on the television. “I’m not. I haven’t the body weight for it. All it takes is one glass and I’m a drowsy mess. That’s the third bottle of wine I’ve opened in six months. They go bad before I ever want a second glass.” He pointed to the dark green bottle on the table, beyond which was the television. On the screen, a group of people, Chris spotting Tom immediately, were walking arm in arm through what looked like somewhere in Italy, cracked cobbled streets and high stacked houses brightly painted yellow and orange and purple and green. Or maybe it was Spain, or even Greece. Chris had no idea.

A bit cautiously, he took a seat opposite Tom on the couch.

“I found these just last week,” Tom whispered, and Chris looked down at a box shoved under the center table, full of video cassettes. “Vacations, and birthday parties, and Christmases and New Years and all of the memories you could ever ask for. All in one box.” He hugged a cushion tighter to his chest, looking to Chris all the more like a young boy.

“How did they die?” Chris asked, speaking low, out of some sort of respect to those on the television screen who were gone in more ways than one. All the anger he’d felt outside after spying Tom asleep on the sofa was gone, deflated like a wrinkly balloon in his chest.

“Car accident,” Tom whispered, eyes frozen on the scene playing before them. Tom, looking to be about fifteen years old, was leaning over the spray of an ancient looking fountain in some ancient looking plaza. His father and grandmother were in the shot with him, tossing coins into the water. “Mum died at the scene. Severed spine. Dad lingered for three days, finally dying of cardiac arrest. The stress was too much for his body.”

His face crumpled suddenly and he buried it in the cushion.

Frozen, Chris watched him cry, absolutely noiseless, only his shoulders shaking from the force of it.

Chris didn’t like this. Not that crying made him uncomfortable; he had a good cry himself every now and then. Helped relieve pressure. But he realized, with sudden clarity, that he didn’t like seeing Tom cry, all long and thin limbs curled around the pillow while images of his dead parents moved over the screen. A week ago he never would have imagined that he and Tom might have met up for a cup of coffee, much less be sitting in his living room while the man cried not three feet away.

“Hey,” he said softly, scooting closer. “Hey, listen. I’m sorry. I came over here, barging in like an idiot—.” He sighed. Gathering his courage, he touched Tom’s shoulder gently, feeling a great shudder sweep through him. “Can I be honest with you, Tom?”

He wouldn’t back down. He would tell him this moment, come clean, that Chris really liked him. And that he’d noticed him from the start, that same day Tom was moving in his grandmother’s things and that damn chandelier needed a bulb replaced and how he’d caught Tom slipping away after having obviously stood there for some time watching Chris, and ever since then Chris had made it a point to look for him. And even though they had never talked before this, it always made his day to see Tom’s blushing face, so shy, with his downcast eyes, those long legs hurrying him away. He would tell him. He would.

Tom sniffed and then lifted his head, blinking blearily at him. He looked from Chris down to the hand on his shoulder, and then back again. Chris snatched his hand back, wondering if he’d crossed some kind of line.

“Tom—.”

But before Chris could continue, and without answering his question, Tom unfolded his legs and stood.

“I should…My gran is expecting me. I think I should get ready.”

Chris looked up at him, at the wet tracks on his face and the red rimming his very tired eyes, and suddenly understood. Tom wanted to be rid of him.

Swallowing past the rejection, Chris nodded and got to his feet. Standing there beside him, only a foot apart, he saw again how tall Tom was. Only an inch or two under Chris. And his blue eyes—bedroom eyes, Chris thought with longing—had a small gathering of brown starbursting around his pupils, only enhancing the blue. They made Chris want to drag him to the window where the light flowed in and peer closer, to wake each morning and see those iridescent colors blink back at him.

“Sorry to have bothered you,” he said softly, and caught the pained face Tom made, as if conflicted, just before Chris turned and let himself out the door.

**

Chris went to work each day feeling something heavy in his chest he couldn’t—and wouldn’t—identify. It lay tight under his ribs, curled and aching, whenever he so much as took a moment’s rest. He couldn’t keep busy enough, rechecking every possible nail in the entire facility, securing the window awnings for the winter rains, skimming the pool and oiling every single door and cabinet hinge. He wished it were summer or spring, when the grass began to grow in great big clusters over every inch of the ten acres, wild and thick and obnoxious. He could spend hours with the lawnmower outside, the incessant whine of it drowning his thoughts.

He slept like shit the first two days after his visit to Tom’s flat. Every time he closed his eyes, the look on Tom’s face as he stared at Chris’s hand on his shoulder, like it was some foreign, unwanted thing, flashed behind his eyelids; or the sound of his voice as he told Chris he needed to get ready, flat, inflection-less, Tom’s polite upbringing preventing him from saying something more candid, more direct, echoed through his head in the dark silence of his bedroom.

It wasn’t until the middle of the week that Chris felt he exhausted himself enough to collapse into bed that night and pass out, flakes of paint still plastered to his neck.

Patricia seemed in better spirits. He wasn’t sure if Tom had still gone to see her on Sunday like he said he would, but he often spied her in the crafts room or in the gym or outside on the veranda, always with a few of her closest girlfriends. He liked watching them sit quietly and talk, like a group of old pigeons cooing softly in the sunlight. The weather was turning colder every day. Fall was steadily rounding into winter and for early November, the sky was beginning to turn that steely white that could only mean snow.

Chris missed Australia. He missed the sun and the ocean. But after a short stint of living in London with a boyfriend who dumped him after only four months, Chris stayed on in the city, finding work at Summer Valley almost immediately. Four years later, he was still here and Tom was a constant fixture lingering in his thoughts.

He planned on avoiding the great house over the weekend, not wanting to make Tom any more uncomfortable than he already felt. And frankly, Chris was humiliated by the rejection. He hadn’t expected it to sting so badly. He still refused to believe the nightmares that had woken him nearly every night had anything to do with Tom. Chris wasn’t that pathetic.

As luck would have it, Chris was lounging in his backyard when the phone rang inside the kitchen. Barefoot and clad in swim trunks and a holey sweater, Chris reached through the kitchen window and pulled the receiver outside, curly cord and all.

It was the director of Summer Valley, needing Chris’s assistance with a heater in one of the residents’ rooms. Chris promised he’d be right in, half hoping it was Patricia’s room that required his attention.

When he arrived to work twenty minutes later, he couldn’t help but notice what he assumed was Tom’s car in the lot. At least, it had been the one Chris saw parked outside Tom’s flat.

Mabel, a charming old woman whose room was just off the main hallway, sat wrapped in blankets and old furs while Chris fixed her heater. She was a tiny thing, with purple eye shadow and two spots of rouge on her papyrus-like skin, but her smile was as big as her heart, and she thanked Chris profusely once warm air started ballooning out into the room. Chris was pocketing his screw driver when he spotted a head of curly blond hair vanishing around the corner. His heart jumped and he quickened his steps, following. Clinking sounds from within the kitchen made him pause, and he took a deep breath, smoothing down his grease-spotted shirt, wishing he’d had time to wash his hands, at least, his fingernails lined with grime. Tom, with his soft skin and freshly laundered clothes, probably preferred a clean touch.

As casually as he could, he ambled into the small kitchen and came face to face with Tom, who was on his way out again.

They blinked at each other, and then Chris stared as a bloom of color rose in Tom’s cheeks. He held a cup of something steamy in his hands, cradling it against his chest in a gesture that could only be seen as protective.

“Hi,” Chris said, feeling rather protective himself.

“Chris,” Tom whispered, and it sounded lovely, his name from those lips. But all this staring would get them nowhere, Chris knew. He swallowed and then smiled.

“How are you?”

Tom nodded, starting to step to the side. “Fine. I’m fine.” With his eyes cast down, Chris imagined Tom was still mortified about the lies he’d told his grandmother. Chris wished Tom could know that it really was okay, that he shouldn’t worry about it, that Chris thought it was actually really cute. But Tom’s anxiousness, the display of nervousness and exhaustion seemed to stem from something far deeper than his little lies. Chris had a feeling there was a well of despair deep in that heart that had so much more to do with his parents’ death and his grandmother’s mental decline. It screamed of loneliness and all the fear that came with it.

Skittish as a cat, Tom mumbled something and edged around Chris, fleeing from the room and out of sight.

Chris sighed and ran a hand over his hair, wondering how the hell he was going to get through the barriers Tom had built so high.

**

Tom found the first deserted corridor and ducked into it quickly, leaning back against the wall, breathing fast.

His tea burned through his shirt and he felt a plume of heat spread over his chest, but he didn’t care. The sting grounded him, it helped calm him. It reminded him, however vaguely, of the heat he’d felt emanating from Chris that day in his grandmother’s room, the day they’d held hands somewhat awkwardly before Tom resigned himself to the inevitable and Chris’s touch had suddenly turned gentle.

Tom blinked to clear the blur in his vision, heart racing.

He’d left Chris behind in the kitchen, looking so lovely and uniquely filthy. Tom so greatly wanted to crush himself against that tall frame and soak in that warmth, inhale his scent and let the smudges of grease stain his clothes, his skin.

He bowed his head, sobbing once quietly before pressing a closed fist to his mouth, silencing himself. This wasn’t the place to feel self-pity, to let the depth of his sadness rise and brim over his self-control. Tom had a purpose here.

He straightened and wiped at his eyes before checking around the corner. No one in sight. Sighing, he walked back toward his grandmother’s room, forcing his lips into a smile, ready to accompany her to the crafts room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan <3

Two weeks passed, and Tom and Chris hadn’t spoken a single word to each other. It was hard to miss one another, being two of the youngest—and tallest—people in all the ten acres. Tom frequently saw Chris around the facility, adjusting light fixtures, toting trash bags to the dumpsters in the parking lot, and even hauling broken pieces of fire wood from the direction of the trees lining the property, sweating, a scowl twisting the features on his face, making him look stern. Pulse racing, Tom had stood frozen at the window in the great dining hall at the back end of the house, watching Chris maneuver the loaded wheel barrow over the yellowing grass, arm muscles flexed and jumping. It wasn’t until Chris neared the house and he looked up to the windows that Tom realized he was gawking and quickly jumped behind the heavy curtain.

Patricia often appeared troubled when Tom visited her on the weekends. Her delicate brows pulled into a frown, she answered his questions politely and concisely, but there was obviously something that was bothering her. She kept glancing at the door when she and Tom would sit by the windows, mugs of tea set before them. Whenever he asked if she was alright, she would sit up straighter and clasp her hands before him, asking why ever he thought anything was the matter. He learned to drop the issue, not wanting to further upset her.

Even though the temperature was steadily dropping, they still enjoyed their walks through the gardens, and she was progressing with the scarf she was knitting for him, made of a dark green wool that she often said would look beautiful against his skin.

Sometimes she recognized him and sometimes she didn’t. Tom didn’t press her either way, feeling a weighty sort of weariness descend upon him of late. When she asked about his love life, he would answer dutifully that his girlfriend was lovely and she would visit one of these days. Yet, there seemed to be something about his vague answers that didn’t seem to sit well with Patricia. She often stared at him for long moments after he replied with his usual retort, as if not quite understanding what he had just said. And then she would gather herself and continue with their conversation, albeit it more withdrawn than before. Tom didn’t know what to make of it, and he felt distinctly more on edge with each visit, unsure what to anticipate, how he should prepare himself to face so great an unknown.

One such Sunday afternoon, she was describing something her friend Amelie had done in the dining hall—another prank, another nurse—when suddenly Patricia had sat up straight in her seat, eyes wide on the window.

Tom turned to look and he smiled slowly. Past the tall panes of glass, a soft snowfall was floating down, dusting over the dead grass. Give it another hour and the entire grounds would be blanketed entirely.

Patricia stood. “Finally, the snows have arrived.” She went to stand before the curtains, and laughed quietly. “Oh, how enchanting! Isn’t it beautiful, Christop—?” She turned and fell silent, eyes darting over the room. “Christoph?”

Tom felt his heart drop. He rose to his feet. “Gran? Are you alright?”

“Tom?” she whispered, her eyes clearing from their haze. She seemed caught between two worlds. But then she blinked and the haze was back. “Christoph. Christoph, come back in here.” She tried making her way around the table, but Tom blocked her gently.

“Gran, it’s alright. Let’s sit here and watch the snow. It’s falling so beautifully. Perhaps it will actually stick—.”

“Excuse me, young man. But I must get by. Christoph was just here. And I must fetch him. He’ll want to see the snow.”

“Gran, Christoph isn’t here. But I’m here. Would you like to see the snow with me?”

“What do you mean he isn’t here? I just saw him! Please excuse me.”

“Wait a minute, Gran. Let’s take a small minute and just breathe, and think about this. Do you know who I am?”

She hesitated, her small hands shaking in his grasp. “Well…yes. Yes. You’re Tom. My son? And…” She shook her head, tears beginning to brim in her eyes. “You…you haven’t brought Christoph around, have you? He came once. I remember. It was Christoph…wasn’t it?”

Tom wasn’t sure how to proceed. So much of what she remembered were only falsehoods, thanks to him. But Chris’s one visit was absolutely real and he focused on that.

“Well, a friend came to visit you. His name is _Chris_. And he hasn’t been able to come back again, but he sends his love. I know he does.”

“But—,” she sputtered, glancing between the door and the snow, falling faster now. “But he is…your boyfriend. Right? Am I remembering that correctly? Tom? He’s yours? He’s not my Christoph? Please! Tell me the truth!”

Her voice rose and Tom’s heart clenched, feeling helpless and responsible and so, so lost. He glanced at the door, wondering for all the world what to do to fix this.

**

Chris wiped at the doorknob to the outside veranda and handed the spare key to Tess. The previous knob had felt too loose for his liking, so he replaced the entire thing, testing it over and over until he was confident it would hold.

He was heading back to the main lobby, finished for the day, when he heard raised voices down the corridor that led to Patricia’s room. He doubled back, hesitating at the opening of the hall. Most of the residents were gathered in the great dining hall to watch the snow fall through the giant floor to ceiling windows, giving the rest of the house an eerie, deserted vibe. But Patricia’s door was ajar and he heard what sounded like an argument. Approaching the door, he paused, listening.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Well…yes. Yes. You’re Tom. My son? And…You…you haven’t brought Christoph around, have you? He came once. I remember. It was Christoph…wasn’t it?”

“Well, a friend came to visit you. His name is _Chris_. And he hasn’t been able to come back again, but he sends his love. I know he does.”

“But— But he is…your boyfriend. Right? Am I remembering that correctly? Tom? He’s yours? He’s not my Christoph? Please! Tell me the truth!”

Chris had heard enough. He pushed open the door and stepped in. They were standing before the window, Tom clutching his grandmother’s wrists, eyes wide with panic, and Patricia sobbing quietly.

“Hey,” Chris said softly, dropping his tools on the side couch and approaching them. Tom blinked at him, as if not believing it was really him. Chris put a hand on his shoulder and the other on Patricia’s arm. “What’s going on, Patricia? Are you alright?” He kept his voice gentle, hoping to soothe her.

Patricia gasped and shook her head. “I’m not quite sure…who are you?”

Chris smiled. “I’m Chris. I’m Tom’s boyfriend. Do you remember me? I came to visit you a few weeks ago.”

Tom was staring at him, but Chris ignored him.

Slowly, Patricia nodded, as if everything was starting to clear in her head. She tugged on her arms and Tom let go, reluctantly. “Yes…yes, I remember you.” She laughed and dabbed at her eyes. “Chris!”

“Yes! It’s me. I’m sorry I’m late. I told Tom traffic was bad with the snow. I tried to get here as soon as I could.”

She patted her hair and smoothed down her dress, but was no longer crying. “I knew a Christoph once,” she said quietly, almost to herself, before she took the both of them in. “Look at you two. Quite the handsome couple.”

Chris felt Tom stiffen beside him, but Chris only smiled and put his arm around Tom’s shoulders. “Thank you, Patricia. That’s very kind of you to say.”

And so very slowly, Chris felt a sort of give in the way Tom held his body away from him. He felt the exact moment Tom gave in and relaxed against him, his arm coming up to wrap around Chris’s waist, their sides pressed together. Tom practically sagged against him and Chris held steady, taking his weight, not minding in the least.

Smiling easily now, Patricia touched her chest and cleared her throat delicately. “Oh, excuse me. I feel quite tired. Perhaps I’ll lie down for a bit to recover my strength. I’m sure Christoph will return momentarily.”

As much as he hated letting Tom go, Chris hurried to help Patricia to her bed, bending to remove her tiny heeled slippers. Once she was settled with a blanket tucked around her, Chris turned to find Tom exactly where he left him, by the front of the window. He had a hand pressed to the pane of glass, but his eyes were vacant, unseeing. Patricia’s eyes were already closed, so Chris crossed the room and wrapped an arm around Tom’s shoulders again, steering him around the table and to the door. He picked up his tools and then guided Tom to the vacant hallway just opposite them. Here, the light was brighter and he braced Tom back against the wall, hands on his biceps.

“Are you alright?”

Tom didn’t say anything, just looked down. He felt so thin under his button-up shirt and Chris knew he would be more sensitive to the cold weather than most.

“Tom,” he said, trying to find the words. _You’re only twenty nine. You’re taking on too much. It’s okay to ask for help. You’ll wear yourself down. You’re so exhausted, I can see that._ But Tom lifted his hands and circled Chris’s forearms, the first voluntary touch he’d made since their acquaintance.

“You’re so warm,” he murmured, eyes on Chris’s chest, almost afraid to look higher.

Emboldened, Chris stepped closer and very cautiously lifted his arms to wrap around Tom’s back. He pulled him in, squeezing tight, until all the tension left Tom’s body and we went practically boneless in Chris’s embrace.

“It’s okay,” Chris whispered, rubbing his back, feeling the sharp ridges of his shoulder blades through his shirt. Tom’s arms were around his waist and he was holding on tight, face pressed to Chris’s neck. He moaned so softly, nose cold against the underside of his jaw, but Chris pressed him hard, encouraging the touch, a touch he felt that maybe Tom had denied himself for far too long. Slowly Tom's fingers curled into his shirt and he clutched at Chris, shaking with silent tears.

Crowding him gently against the wall, Chris held Tom, murmuring sweetly to him, soaking up the trembling that wouldn't let his thin body rest. Not believing his luck, Chris felt his skin prickle with excitement, giddy with the privilege of holding Tom, to help him out of his sadness, something he knew plagued him more than he’d ever willingly let on. When Tom lifted his head, blinking owlishly up at Chris, eyes full and wet, Chris stopped breathing for a moment, fully unprepared for the minute cracking in his chest to collapse entirely at any moment. He wanted to stroke that cheek, feel the soft bristles of his day-old stubble. He wanted to know, more than anything, if Tom would lean into his touch again, just like he had earlier in Patricia's room.

But then voices floated down the hall, in the direction of the great dining room, and Tom's head whipped around. He straightened suddenly and ripped out of Chris's grasp just as a group of residents passed by the hall, chatting about the snow fall and how beautiful it all was. None of them noticed Chris and Tom standing awkwardly by the bright window, Tom facing away, arms crossed. When they were gone, Tom expelled a breath and rocked on his heels. He smiled over at Chris, tightly and a little embarrassed.

"Sorry about that," he said softly. "I'm not sure what got into me."

_Your feelings_ , Chris thought, but stayed quiet, not wanting to spook Tom into bolting.

"I better get back," Tom sighed. "I should check on her." Chris nodded, trying to freeze the impression of Tom's body on his skin, already fading into the dull and familiar feel of his own body temperature. As Tom moved to walk past him, he stopped. Touching Chris's wrist quickly, he said, "Thank you, Chris. For helping me back there. And right now. I...I can't tell you how much it meant to me."

Nodding once, Chris watched him go, waiting until Tom was out of sight to touch his own wrist, right where Tom had squeezed so gently.

**

For the first time in a long time, Tom slept the whole night through, waking just after seven in the morning. He was still curled around the same pillow he'd fallen asleep with. Stretching onto his back with a groan, he lay dozing for a few minutes, half believing the pillow his hand rested on was a warm torso he could easily cuddle against as soon as the next wave of drowsiness hit him. But the pillow soon grew cold without his body heat and Tom sighed before rolling to his feet.

He'd dreamt of Chris again. Well, he'd dreamt of a sun bathed wheat field, the thick stocks swaying from side to side, a wide yawning sky arching bright and blue and cloudless overhead, and he could only liken it to what he remembered about being wrapped tight in the man's arms.

Chris had smelled wonderful. He'd felt wonderful, all hard muscle, unyielding but careful, so careful with him. Tom could feel the immense strength in him, smelled the sweat on his skin, seeped with sunlight, and the soft caress of those wide hands on his back. Tom shivered just remembering the feel of it, how wholly safe he’d felt. And he'd felt so unmoored lately, any small ripple in the lake of his mind ready to send him reeling, cast adrift, lost. But not yesterday, not as soon as Chris had come bursting into the room as his grandmother's mounting panic had started to feed his own, when Tom had started to wonder how in the world he would handle a meltdown. He'd already started imagining, to his horror, nurses rushing in, sedating Patricia, having to explain how it happened, why she’d become so upset.

But no. As soon as Patricia had calmed down enough that no sedation would be necessary, Tom felt all his strength drain to the floor. Sagging against Chris had been no decision at all. All that warmth and firm presence appeared to Tom like a relief, a chance to rest. And he had believed, for the few minutes he allowed himself, that he and Chris really were a couple, that what Patricia was seeing wasn't some farce, like he'd originally created, but an actual couple who would seek each other out for company and support. And Tom's arm had risen unbidden to wrap around Chris's waist, and he'd wondered at it all, leaning heavily on him, at how beautiful a thought it was.

And as he stood under the spray of water in the shower, soaping his hair, scrubbing his skin, he mused at how a feeling like that would ever become his permanently, realistically, like a safe and welcoming harbor to a ship no one thought would ever be seen again, once believed was lost at sea.

**

Tom started to notice Chris more often during the weekends, and if he wasn't mistaken, it appeared the man was working seven days a week. Unless he had two days off Monday through Friday, but Tom had no idea about that. Regardless, he was happy to see his smiling face when at Summer Valley, that tall body ambling through the halls, inspecting beams and radiator covers and windowpanes. Chris was everywhere, and Tom felt content at the thought.

It was nearly bedtime the next Saturday night and Patricia had pulled out a photo album for her and Tom to look through. He had just settled on the couch next to her, faux electric-bulbed candles lit at her dresser, the sky black just outside the windows, when she suddenly got a strange look in her eye.

"Gran?" Tom said, a familiar feeling of dread creeping into his heart. In the corner of his vision he could see the flakes of snow drifting in the dark.

She visibly startled at his voice, clutching her chest in surprise. "Who are you? What are you doing in my room?"

Tom raised his hands, showing no harm intended. "Gran, it's me. It's Tom."

She dropped the album and pushed to her feet. "I don't know any Tom. You are not welcome here, young man. It's late and I will call security if you don't leave immediately."

Tom rose beside her. "I'm your grandson. Please, you must remember—."

"Nurse! Nurse!" she called, backing away from him.

Tom tried to reason with her, to prove to her that she knew him. He tried to point out the framed pictures on the walls, tried opening the photo album to show her her family within its pages, but she wouldn't be calmed. She was clearly afraid of him, and he felt his heart breaking inside his chest. "Alright," he was whispering as a set of footsteps pounded in the hallway.

"Alright, I'll go." But no one heard him, least of all the person at whom his words were directed. Patricia was nearly hysterical, clutching at her robe and pointing her finger at Tom. A nurse—Rebecca, Tom saw—pushed inside and immediately went to Patricia's side.

"This man! This man is in my room. I've told him to leave and he won't! Please call security, nurse."

Amid Rebecca's attempts to talk Patricia down to a calm level, Tom became aware of another person entering the room. But he was stricken into silence, ashamed that his grandmother would so forcefully want him removed. He knew it wasn't her, not really. He knew this. But it hurt so much, he couldn't quell it.

"I'm security. I'll remove him, ma'am."

Tom startled to attention and looked up into Chris's face. Rebecca, too, turned to Chris in confusion, but he nodded at her.

He took Tom's elbow and started dragging him to the door. "You can rest easy, ma'am. I'll remove the perp from the premises."

Patricia nodded and held tight to Rebecca. "Thank you, sir. You're most kind."

“Come on,” Chris said gently, low enough for only Tom to hear.

Tom craned his neck as Chris pulled him from the room, trying to keep his grandmother in his sight for as long as possible, but she was being led to the bed by Rebecca and seemed to have already forgotten about him.

"Gran," he gasped, trying to turn back, but Chris kept a strong hold on his arm. Before Tom knew it, they were pushing through one of the side exits and into the freezing dark.

"Shit, I'm sorry," Chris said, trailing him. "Those were like the cheesiest lines I could remember from any crime movie ever made."

The cold is what did it. It's what leveled Tom's control and he broke down, grabbing at his hair, heaving great plumes of white into the air as he gasped through his anger. Chris was immediately at his side, wrapping him close as Tom's sobs broke from his chest. Chris held him gently in the snowy drifts buffeting their bodies, and before long, Tom was shivering through his sobs. Turning to take the brunt of the wind's gusts, Chris cradled Tom's head to his neck, placing a hand over the exposed part of Tom's face. He was freezing. He wore only a white button down shirt and trousers and Chris was in jeans and stained T-shirt, his typical work clothes. But they made no move to retreat back inside, where perhaps Patricia might still be complaining about Tom's presence in her room. Burrowing closer, Tom murmured at his neck, trembling. "She was just here," he whispered. "And then she went away and she didn't know me. But she was just here. Sometimes I can draw her back with questions or showing her certain pictures. But she's never kicked me out before. Never." He sniffed and clutched at Chris's shirt. "I'm losing her, Chris. She's all I have left and I'm losing her."

Chris rocked him, and then drew back, bracketing Tom’s face with his hands.

“Wait for me,” he said quietly, and Tom, slightly alarmed, found himself nodding. Chris kissed his forehead fast and Tom gaped, too stunned to do anything, much less pull back in surprise. He watched as Chris rushed back inside the house, returning a minute later wearing a loose jumper with his tool bag and Tom’s jacket and bag he’d left in Patricia’s room.

“Here,” he said, helping Tom into the jacket, zipping it up to his neck, rubbing his arms for warmth. Tom moved mechanically, letting Chris do all these things for him. When Chris took his hand, he made no protest. He simply squeezed his fingers and hurried to match his long steps.

“Where are we going?”

Chris tossed his tools into the back of his pickup and opened the passenger door for Tom.

“I know just the place. Will you come with me?”

Tom hesitated, looking between Chris and the door he was holding open for him. And then he turned to the big house across the lot, lit brilliantly in the great dark of night, like a decorated wedding cake. Inside was the woman he loved like a mother, gone from him in so many ways.

“Yes,” he said, meeting Chris’s eyes. “Yes, I’ll go with you.”

Chris smiled and waited until Tom climbed in to slam the door hard, racing around the back of the truck to the driver’s side. Where they were going, Tom didn’t know. But he suddenly felt elevated above the normal plane of gravity everyone else walked on. His heart was pounding and he couldn’t catch his breath, but he looked over at Chris buckling his seat belt, and smiled, ready to go wherever Chris thought was best.

**

The place was at best some kind of pub, probably closer to a dive if truth be told, a type of establishment Tom would never have dared set foot in on his own. He kept close to Chris as they maneuvered through the smoke-filled room, clamping a small bit of Chris's jumper between two of his fingers as he trailed behind him. It was still early enough for some booths to be empty, most of the patrons crowded around the main bar counter or under the shining spotlights of the billiards tables. Tom removed his jacket and folded it on the vinyl seat of the dimly lit booth Chris snagged. Chris did the same with his jumper, pulling it over his head so that some strands fell loose from his ponytail. Tom swallowed and glanced away, squinting to read the signs above the bar.

Chris ordered them two pints. When the waitress brought them over a minute later, Tom’s eyes popped. The foamy tops were spilling over the rims of their glasses and dripping across the tabletop, but Chris thanked her kindly and clinked Tom’s glass.

“To family,” he said and took a long gulp. Tom followed suit, catching sight of the way Chris’s throat bobbed with the drink. He raised the glass to his lips, and took a hearty swallow.

**

Tom wasn’t lying about being a lightweight. He was tossing back the dregs of his first pint when he signaled to the waitress for another. Chris opened his mouth to cancel the order, but the waitress was gone and Tom was talking again. All that he said, uncensored by propriety and a sober conscience, only made it that much more apparent to Chris how much Tom had been suffering alone.

He told Chris everything. About his parents’ deaths, about his grandmother’s diagnosis, how lost and helpless he felt as his Gran seemed to slip further away from him as more and more time passed. This led to Tom ruminating on his lack of any real desire to have friends his own age, about his choice to remain uninvolved with others because it was too complicated and there tended to be a mix-up in roles. Chris found this new, blatantly honest Tom slightly alarming, but also terribly endearing in all his openness.

“I mean,” Tom said, leaning on his elbow and swaying just slightly, a thoughtful look turning down the corners of his mouth. “With my height, most men want me to top, and I just don’t like it. I don’t like topping. I love being bottom. And well, there is often that awkward moment just after shirts are yanked off, when we stare at each other and realize it won’t work.” He thanked the waitress for his new pint and took another sip. Chris, blushing red and fighting back a smile, was at a complete loss for what to say, but Tom didn’t notice. If anything, Tom was inching closer and closer, until their thighs were touching and Tom was near enough to see his half-lidded eyes and the sweat on his brow. He hiccupped and then laughed, smiling so wide Chris couldn’t help but stare. He’d never seen that smile before.

Tom made a quick sound just after another sip of beer, as if he’d remembered something. “How on earth did that ancient hulking American beast of yours even get across the pond?”

Chris laughed. Tom was referring to his Ford Sport Custom pickup. It was a 1972 two tone base coat, cherry red and white, and it was a beauty. Chris was sort of really proud of it.

“Restored it myself. I know it's not exactly the American muscle most people talk about but it suits my needs. And I like it."

Tom blinked at him sleepily, smiling. He hummed.

“And I like you,” he said quietly. Chris’s heart seized and he swallowed hard.

And then Tom’s hand was on his knee and Chris glanced nervously at the room at large. He didn’t want anyone’s negative attention on them, and Tom was being more uninhibited than Chris knew he would otherwise ever dare to be in public. He wanted to be able to protect Tom in case anyone had the gall to approach them about their displays of affection.

“Oh,” Tom said, misreading his nervousness. His brows puckered adorably. “I forget. You’re probably not interested in me.” He blinked and then started to slide away, but Chris’s hand shot out under the table, gripping his lean thigh tightly.

“Don’t be getting wrong any ideas. I like you a lot, too.”

Tom’s eyes widened for a moment, but then his face softened. “Chris,” he breathed and Chris almost lost all control. Damn everyone else in that pub to hell if it meant this man was about to be moaning his name like that and making his head spin with a hundred different new dirty thoughts.

“Are you about done?” he asked, indicating the drink in Tom's hand, voice gone hoarse. He cleared his throat and looked around again, but everyone was fixated on some other mundane thing, not the divine creature practically sitting in Chris’s lap. Tom nodded and then chugged the rest of his beer down. Chris tossed a few bills onto the table and they slid out of the booth. Tom swayed and Chris steadied him with a hand on his elbow, before helping him into his jacket. He took his hand and, ignoring some of the looks the other patrons tossed their way, pulled him into the cold night air. Tom groaned and tried turning back into the warmth of the pub, but Chris kept him under his arm.

Tom was in no condition to drive, so Chris made the decision to leave his car at Summer Valley for the night. Instead, Chris turned his truck toward Tom’s flat. Tom was slumped over in his seat, head forming a misty halo against the cold window, and Chris thought he might have fallen asleep but then he jerked awake when they bumped over into his parking space.

“Where are we?” he mumbled, words slurred. Chris felt a pang in his blood, his protective instincts flaring.

“Home,” he said, gruff.

He opened Tom’s door and started unbuckling his seat belt, Tom protesting vaguely. With stifled giggles and a few stumbles, they made it to Tom’s door, where he had to fumble around the front pockets of Tom’s trousers for his keys, face red when Tom bucked and giggled because it _tickles, Chris._ Tom found this immensely hilarious and kept nosing his way along Chris’s neck.

Once inside, Chris bolted the door and guided Tom over to the sofa, where he collapsed down rather gracelessly. It wasn’t until he’d removed Tom’s shoes that he realized Tom had passed out again. Chris pulled a quilt from the back of the sofa and draped it over him from foot to chin. It was relatively warm in the flat, but Tom seemed so thin and pale in the moonlight filtering in through the window, and his time in the cold between the car and his front door had only increased his shivering.

Giving the place a look around, Chris suddenly felt his own fatigue, and the thought of driving home through the snow made him cringe.

With Tom stretched out over the sofa, Chris untied his own shoes and placed them to the side. He slid down to the floor and lay over the carpet, snagging a pillow from beneath Tom’s legs. He, too, was asleep within moments.

A short while later, Chris awoke groggily and felt something warm on him. Startling, he half sat up, ready to fight whoever it was, but then realized it was only Tom. He must have climbed down from the sofa and was spread out alongside Chris, face tucked into his neck, a leg thrown between Chris’s knees. The quilt lay rumpled on the sofa where Tom had abandoned it. Heart jack hammering, he reached for the quilt and then draped it over the both of them before laying back down again. Turning a bit on his side, he pulled Tom close and closed his eyes.

**

The pillow was getting more and more comfortable with every new dream, Tom decided. So warm and...lifelike. He snuggled closer, loving the feel of a heart beat against his eyelids.

Before he could fully recognize the significance of that pulse, a loud pinging started in the room. He gasped and jerked awake, eyes still pasted shut. But his head was pounding so hard and he groaned, collapsing back against the big body next to him.

"What—what is it?" Tom whispered, feeling nauseous.

The pinging continued and Tom couldn't focus on it.

"Hang on, let me see...Hold still."

Tom stopped his squirming as arms came up around him, hands patting for a second until they found what was making all the racket in the back pocket of his trousers.

"Your phone," said that gruff voice and Tom all but melted where he lay. It was Chris. He was here with him and they were lying down and Chris was holding him to his chest.

Chris answered his phone. "Hello?"

Tom heard indistinct murmuring on the other end, but he couldn't care enough to listen. All he cared about was staying curled up in that warm embrace, finding that he really loved pressing his face to Chris's throat. The vibrations of his voice spread like tickles over the bridge of his nose.

"Uh huh. Okay, one second." Chris cupped his head. "It's for you."

"You don't say," Tom said drily, no energy to spare.

Chris tugged at a strand of his hair. "Don't be cute. It's Summer Valley. Your grandmother is asking for you."

Tom shot up, scrambling fast but getting absolutely nowhere. Chris cursed when Tom's elbow landed on his belly. He finally yanked Tom down against him and pressed the phone to his ear.

"This is Tom," Tom said, voice sounding shot. How much had he drank last night?

"Tom? This is Rebecca, from Summer Valley. Do you remember me from last night?"

"Of course, of course," Tom said, rubbing his eyes. "Is everything alright? Is Patricia okay?"

"Your grandmother is fine. I was able to get her into bed last night without a fuss. She didn't mention the 'intruder' incident again. I'm so sorry about that, Tom. She's never been that aggressive."

"It's okay," Tom whispered, flashes of the night before bursting before his eyes, Patricia cowering back from him, demanding that he leave, Chris finally dragging him away. Beside him, Chris touched Tom's jaw, eyes crinkling in question. _Is everything alright?_

Tom nodded, trying to smile. It felt like a grimace.

"The reason I'm calling," Rebecca continued. "Is that she woke up this morning in good spirits. She's just had her breakfast and is out on the veranda with Amelie and Mabel. She started asking about you right away. Said she dreamt about you and wants to see you. I think she's worried about you and can't quite understand why. Dr. Charles was informed of what happened last night and said it might be her residual subconscious making her aware that something isn't right with you. I was wondering if you could come down this morning and speak with her. Maybe see if she remembers anything else about your 'argument'."

"Yes, of course. I'll be there as soon as I can. Within the hour."

He hung up and lay still, trying to think around the throb in his head.

"It's a good thing, right?" Chris whispered, having overheard. "That she asked for you?"

Tom felt his heart sink slowly. He couldn't put himself through any kind of hope again. He had tried it before and it had hurt him terribly.

"I don't know," he admitted after a moment. "Sometimes I wonder if, with all that's been happening, it's just the calm before the storm."

Chris hugged him tighter, and kissed his forehead.

"Do you want to go now?" Chris asked, sounding like he hoped Tom would say no.

"I do. And I don't. I want to always be there for her, but I'm afraid of the hurt." He sighed. "Sounds bloody stupid, doesn't it?"

Chris rubbed small circles on his back and Tom relished in the feel of him. Closing his eyes afforded him little relief. His head felt like a woodpecker had taken permanent residence within and his limbs felt heavy and sluggish.

"No, it doesn't. You've tried hoping before and have always been let down," Chris said softly, having surmised Tom's hesitancy.

"Yes, but I know that's a shit reason not to be there for her. I need to get my act together and just go."

"I can help you," Chris said, touching Tom's hair. "First we start with breakfast. Because you need to eat. And you need some meds for that headache."

Tom tilted his head up, feeling like a metal spike was going to cleave it in two. He stroked Chris's jaw, taking in the details of his face, and adoring them all immediately. He swallowed.

"Are you going to be another disappointment, Christopher?"

Chris blinked and then shook his head. Leaning low, he pressed their lips together in a soft, chaste kiss. Tom moaned quietly, his skin wanting to burst open.

When he drew back, Tom blinked dazedly at him, and Chris smiled.

"I sincerely hope not, Tom," he said, palming Tom's face. "I will try with all that I have not to be. Okay?”

Tom nodded, chest tightening.

“Oh, and just for the future. Chris isn't a derivative of Christopher. My full name is Christoph."

Stunned, Tom stared at him, wondering how in the world it could possibly be. And then Chris burst out laughing, falling forward onto Tom, shaking hard.

"Shut up, you jerk!" Tom cried, but started laughing too, and they laughed together, grabbing at each other, tears streaming. They kissed again, slow and in between fits of giggles.

“Mm, you’re feisty under all that serious façade,” Chris said, teasing.

Tom looked away, smiling through his burning face. “I am not.”

Chris inhaled softly, gazing down at him. And then he bent his head for more kisses and Tom complied, still bewildered by the turn of events.

"You're terrible," he said when they broke apart. He was breathless, his cheeks hurting. "You're terrible and I can't take it."

Chris chuckled and wrapped Tom in his arms. "You will take it," he said, voice low with promise. "When the time is right, you will take it. And it's going to be beautiful."

Tom felt his face flame, lying there on his living room floor with someone he never would have believed would be in his house at all.

"Yes," he whispered. "It will be beautiful."

They reached for each other at the same time, all gasps and sweet murmurs. Their embrace was long and warm, legs tangled and shifting.

Chris kissed his nose and then hopped to his feet.

"Come on, then," Chris said. "Let's get you fed. I'll drive us when you're ready."

Tom groaned and closed his eyes, already feeling queasy just watching Chris move that fast. Hands gripped his own and then he was being hauled to his feet.

"Thank goodness,” Tom started, interrupted by a yawn. “That you're the one driving. That metal contraption of yours is a death trap I wouldn't even begin to know how to maneuver." He swayed and leaned against Chris.

"Hush now," Chris growled. "She's a tough cookie. She'll protect us both." Quick as lightning, he pinched his bottom and Tom jumped, rubbing at the spot, mouth agape. And then he bent over laughing, looking overjoyed that someone had actually done that.

Like a sweet boy, Chris thought, as Tom shook his head and led the way into the kitchen.

**

While Chris puttered around in the kitchen with breakfast, Tom slipped into the shower. He braced himself on the wall as hot water poured over him, trying to make sense of the kisses he still felt lingering on his lips. How long had it been since he'd been kissed? Too long. Maybe he had wandered into a bar on his own last night and got drunk alone and came home alone and now showered alone. To be sure, Tom peeked over his shoulder, but no, the stall was empty. The sound of a pot banging over the stove sounded through the bathroom, and Tom started to wonder at his sanity. He put his hand on the wall, on the other side of which was his kitchen, where a lovely young blond giant was cooking him food. When had this happened?

When you lost all the control, Tom thought wearily. When everything you’ve tried to hold together started to crack, to splinter, and the one who looked at you the closest took notice. Had Chris really been looking at Tom that closely? Had Tom been so transparent that Chris could take one look at him and read when he needed the most support? And by extension, did it really take Tom getting drunk to open up enough to be friendly, or even flirty, with another man? He sighed and scrubbed at his face, trying to rid himself of the cloud in his head, knowing it was no use trying to deliberate over something so subjective while hung over.

He brushed his teeth and then dressed warmly in jeans and a black jumper, grabbing the green scarf his grandmother had finally finished for him. When he stood before the mirror, he did his best not to cringe. There were dark circles under his eyes and his cheeks looked sunken in, and Tom realized for the first time that he really needed to start taking better care of himself.

Too tired to shave, he instead ran a hand over his hair, hoping it passed for decent.

Out in the hallway, he padded slowly toward the kitchen, from which came the delicious scents of a warm breakfast. His stomach stirred quietly, still not fully settled enough to be ravenous. When he turned the corner, he saw Chris loading a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. Freshly toasted slices of bread sat on a napkin to the side.

Chris looked up.

"Hey," he said, smiling, and Tom felt a warmth seep into the pit of his belly.

"Hey," he answered. "Can I help with anything?"

"Nope," Chris said, taking the plates of food to the table. "It's all done. I'll grab us some juice. Go ahead and sit."

Tom sank into his seat gratefully, mouth watering. They tucked into their food quietly, Chris sitting to Tom's immediate right, the silence broken only by the clinks of cutlery and the damp thuds of their condensation-lined glasses. They glanced at each other, and then looked down quickly, hiding smiles behind mouthfuls of food and sips of juice.

Quite unexpectedly, and to Tom's great surprise, he found his hand inching across the small space separating them, touching Chris's wrist softly. He was really there. He was real and he was flesh and blood and not a pillow and he was so warm and Tom wanted to put his hands on every single bit of him.

Chris watched this quietly, watched the fingertips of Tom's hand glide over his wrist, smooth over the back of his hand until, with a nervous swallow, Tom began to pull away, overcome. Chris moved fast, latching his hand over Tom's and squeezing gently.

Tom's head was down, eyes closed, and he inhaled shakily.

"You're not very used to touch, are you?" Chris murmured.

"You could say that," Tom whispered.

Chris considered this, and then laced their fingers together. He chuckled quietly, taking a bite of the last of his bacon. "You're pretty cute."

Tom blushed and lifted his eyes. He tried to remain calm, but his blood was pulsing loud in his ears. "Am I."

Chris nodded. "You are. I've been wanting to tell you that for a long time."

"How long?"

"Since the chandelier."

Tom frowned. "The chandelier?" But then his eyes widened. "The chand—but Chris, that was years ago!"

Chris had the good grace to look down. "I know. I'm an idiot. I should have approached you long ago."

Tom sighed, rubbing a thumb over the rough knuckles of Chris's hand. "It's not all your fault. I could have said something to you too."

They sat in silence. Chris rubbed his jaw contemplatively.

"Am I cute?" he asked, side-eyeing Tom with a teasing glint.

How to possibly explain? Tom decided not to, and leaned over, planting a fast kiss on Chris's cheek. "Very," he said, blushing red. And then he stood and began gathering their plates. Chris, grinning, grabbed their glasses and followed him into the kitchen.

**

"I honestly thought I dreamt this thing," Tom said, standing beside Chris outside, scarf wrapped snug around his neck. Yet there it was. The great American beast. It was even more impressive in the daylight. A gleaming cherry red and white, the truck looked ancient and stronger than anything within a hundred kilometers.

Chris laughed. "Come on. You didn't complain last night. Sober anyway."

Tom paused climbing in. "Oh no. What did I say?"

They slammed their doors shut and Chris turned the ignition. The truck roared to life and Tom sat frozen, eyes wide.

"Purrs pretty, doesn't she?" Chris said, winking at him. He turned in his seat and started to back out. "Well, you told me a little about your life. About your parents and what happened when your grandmother was first diagnosed. And then you started talking about...you."

Tom's eyes were wide. "What about me?"

Chris smirked. "Just stuff. First of all, you called my truck, and I quote, 'a great hulking American beast'."

Tom covered his face with his hands. "Oh god, I'm so sorry."

"But that's alright," Chris continued. "Because she is. And I love her for it."

Tom peeked at him between his fingers.

Chris shifted gears and smiled. "And then you started talking about why you haven't really made many friends. Like why you aren't with anybody. Like how things can get mixed up in the bedroom."

"I didn't!" Tom looked mortified. He groaned and shied away again.

Laughing, Chris reached for his hand and tugged. "Sit closer to me," he whispered.

Sparing the passenger window a glance, checking for who knows what, Tom licked his lips and then slid along the seat a foot.

"Closer," Chris said, keeping his eyes on the road. They were nearly at Summer Valley. Tom crept closer, but kept his legs angled out of the way of the gearshift.

Pulling their joined hands into his lap, Chris shouldered Tom playfully. "That's better. I'll get you closer still."

With his hand tucked near a very private area of Chris’s body, Tom held his breath the last few miles, feeling very faint, practically giddy with it. He wasn’t used to his heart beating this fast, unless out for a run. But Chris had a singular effect on him, reminiscent of a hundred yard sprint. Chest tight, Tom took a steady deep breath and squeezed Chris’s hand, which Chris returned with an even tighter squeeze. It seemed as if Chris was eager to encourage the affection Tom was very hesitantly beginning to show, and Tom was sort of grateful, not knowing how he would feel if his feelings were unreciprocated.

But he mustn’t get ahead of himself. Tom knew better than that.

Parking in his usual spot by the dumpsters to the side of the building, they climbed out through Chris’s door and headed to the front entrance. Tom, a little cold, stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and led the way.

Patricia was standing in front of her dresser looking through her bottles of perfume. When they knocked on her door, she turned in surprise and greeted them warmly. She hugged each in turn, and invited them to sit by the windows.

“Darling, you look so lovely with that scarf! Where did you get it?”

Unwrapping the material carefully, Tom draped it over the back of his chair. “You made it for me, actually. It’s beautifully done.”

“Oh? My, I have no recollection of this. Dr. Charles said there is no bias when it comes to long or short-term memory loss. I’m sorry if I don’t remember, love.”

Tom smiled and touched her arm. “It’s really alright. I’m so glad to see you better.”

“Yes, Dr. Charles came in to speak with me this morning about last night. It’s all a bit faded, you see. I was told that you left…because of me.”

Tom shook his head. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, Gran. You’re the most important person in the world to me. Your safety and your health are my top priorities. You didn’t feel safe last night with me in the room. I left to give you some space.”

She sat back and sighed, smoothing down her dress. “I can’t believe it’s come to this. When I’m lucid…which I think I am, right now?”

Tom took her hand. “You are.”

“Oh, thank goodness. There are blanks in my memory. I feel unhinged, very much trapped between the past and the present. I never want to hurt you, my love.”

“I understand, Gran. I know you’re not yourself when you’re like that. It’s not your fault, or anybody’s. But I’ll always be here for you. Please, I need you to know that.”

Tears gathered in her eyes and her chin trembled delicately. “I feel so lost sometimes, Tom. I don’t know what’s real, what isn’t. I’ve been having dreams of someone I used to know. Years and years ago.”

Tom and Chris exchanged a look, but remained quiet.

“And then I have only snippets of when you come to visit me. And I know you come. The nurses tell me you spend all day with me. In the crafts room. Out in the gardens. Do I forget…everything?”

He didn’t know any other way around it. And he wasn’t going to lie to her again. “It seems like it," he said gently. "Your very distant past seems more real to you than the recent past or present. You don’t know me sometimes. Or that you had my mother. You sometimes think I’m your son, even if you never had one.”

Chris piped in for the first time. He was sitting beside Tom, listening intently. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

Patricia sat up straighter. “Not at all.”

“Who is Christoph?”

To Tom’s surprise, and great joy, two spots of color rose high on his grandmother’s cheeks. It was rare for so obvious an emotion to overcome her face, trained since childhood to be polite and in control. But whoever Christoph was, he had definitely left an impression on her.

She touched her chest. “Oh my, I haven’t heard that name in years. Do…do I mention him often?”

Tom nodded. “You often confused Chris for Christoph. Did they look much alike?”

She laughed quietly. “Only the blond hair, I’m afraid. Your Chris is much taller than Christoph was. And more solidly built.”

Tom blushed when she mentioned ‘his Chris’, and couldn’t help a glance in Chris’s direction. Chris was already looking at him, and he winked, making Tom’s pulse jump and he quickly returned his attention to his grandmother.

“Christoph was a lean man, and short. Well, short for a man. He was tall enough for me.” She laughed again and sat back, crossing her legs at the ankle and clasping her hands on her lap. “I was seventeen and shooting my first film that year in Vienna. My family took the chance to travel to Austria for the summer holidays and joined me in the capital. I remember there was a dreadful heat that year, and all of my costume dresses quickly became a torture to wear. But that’s beside the point. You see, Christoph was an actor, too, and in that film with me. But he was much older. Thirty-five when we first met. And he was rather smitten with me, if I do say so myself,” she said, face breaking in a knowing smile. “He always had a cigarette between two fingers, and he would come up to me between scenes, all smokey words and charming smiles. He was immensely kind, making sure I was comfortable. It was my first film and, even though I had a chaperone, everyone else seemed so much older and experienced, and here I was a wisp of a girl from London. It became apparent very quickly that we liked each other very much, but my parents would hear nothing about it. He was too old, they argued. But I can’t deny that he was my first love, my first infatuation. You could say, based on what you’ve told me that I’ve never forgotten him.”

“What happened?” Chris asked.

She looked out the window. “The film finished and my parents took me back to London. We never had a moment alone during those three months of filming. But we wrote to each other often. And he visited me in London twice. My cousin, Annette, went with me. Told my parents we were going shopping, but we secretly met with him at his hotel.”

Their faces must have showed their shock because she laughed again. “Oh, you two are of the naughtiest mind! We met in the hotel’s restaurant, the least likely place we thought we would be seen by anyone who knew Annette and I. But he treated us like queens. Buying us ice creams and tiny little pastries that left our fingers coated in white sugar. But he married the following year and I married your grandfather two years after that. I only ever saw him in film circles. And always with that extra lingering look. Do you know the kind?”

Tom couldn’t help but turn to Chris. “I think I’m starting to know.”

Tom and Chris joined Patricia in the crafts room, and together they helped her complete her scrapbook, cutting out and shaping the pictures she wanted to use and helping her glue them to the book, under which she wrote out small descriptions of what was happening in the individual pictures.

“When I go, I want you to have this, Tom,” she said, closing the book after it was finished.

“Gran,” he started, not wanting to think about such a thing.

“Please. I want it to be yours. You put in as much time as I did to create it. And there is so much about you in its pages. About our family.” She stroked the cover. “But I want to keep it close by for now. To try to…remember. When I feel I need it most.”

Tom rubbed her shoulder. “Of course, Gran.”

Around dinner, her memory started to lapse, and she began referring to Chris and Christoph and side-eyeing Tom as one would a memory, and Tom knew it was time to leave. Together, they walked her back to her room, where a nurse would help her undress for bed.

“It was so good to see you again,” she said, offering her hand with some distance. “Please do come by soon. I would love to discuss the change of color in the nursery, but my husband will finalize everything with Patrick.”

It happened so fast, this switch into her past, that Tom froze. Chris, as if he’d been the one spending every weekend with Patricia for the better part of three years, recovered first and immediately stuck his hand out to shake hers gently.

“Sounds wonderful. I’ll send Patrick over by the week’s end, if that’s alright with you?”

“Yes, of course,” Patricia said, waving her hand as if nonplussed. “Please tell Margery that I adore the baby blanket she sent me in the post. I think it will match well with Diana’s nursery colors.”

“I’ll tell her. You have yourself a good night,” Chris said, elbowing Tom discreetly.

Tom jumped. “Good night,” he whispered, shaking her hand.

“And to you,” she said, already turning away.

He flinched, as if slapped, but let Chris take his arm and guide him from the room. Outside, a harsh wind had started and Chris reached over to secure Tom’s scarf more firmly around his neck. And then he took Tom’s hand, to which Tom made no protest. Once inside his truck, Tom let out a deep breath, suddenly exhausted. Or maybe he had been during the entire visit but hadn’t let himself feel it until this moment. Whatever the case, he didn’t hesitate when Chris held his arm out, beckoning Tom closer. Tom slid across the seat, sitting a little closer to Chris than earlier in the day. Their fingers laced and Tom leaned his head on Chris’s shoulder, the dark outside the cab of the truck feeling like a living breathing thing. And as Chris drove, the passing lights slicing through that dark like a steady pulse, Tom closed his eyes, and let the motion of that great hulking beast lull him into a troubled doze.

**

It wasn’t until Chris pulled into the parking lot of a small restaurant that Tom roused, and realized, rather stupidly, that they’d left his car behind again at the big house.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, sitting up and smoothing down his shirt. “I seem to be able to fall asleep nearly anywhere these last couple of weeks.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it. You’re under pressure, Tom. And I totally don’t mind you falling asleep on my shoulder. You’re the cutest.”

Tom blushed and followed Chris to the front entrance.

They ate in companionable silence, speaking quietly about Patricia and what she had revealed tonight about who Christoph was.

“You think it was what actually happened or what she only thinks happened?”

Tom shrugged, forking some pasta into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully. “I think she was very lucid. More lucid than she’s been in weeks. Dr. Charles said that patterns are difficult to discern, that there’s no way to really distinguish between when she’s deepest into a part of her memory that seems like the present to her or when the disease relinquishes its hold on her, for even the smallest of moments.”

Chris tossed back his soda. “You know, I think you do a really good job with her.”

Tom frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I know it’s not easy for you when she doesn’t recognize you. When she looks at you like a stranger, treats you like one. I can see how it affects you.”

“I wanted to thank you for that,” Tom interrupted. “You’ve helped me a lot these past few visits. Smoothing over my awkwardness.” “

It’s not awkwardness. You’re caught off guard because who ever expects someone they’ve known and loved their whole life to turn around and not know them? It’s a hard thing to figure.”

Tom sighed, rubbing his face. “You’re right.” He laughed. “I look as shitty as I feel. I need to start straightening out.”

“I don’t think you look shitty,” Chris said softly, and Tom’s breath caught, feeling Chris nudge his foot along Tom’s.

“Well, then,” Tom murmured, swallowing back the last of his drink, their eyes locked until Chris’s gaze drifted down to his throat and he turned away, jaw clenched.

Tom set his glass down, a small tendril of recognition twining through his belly, the feel of the effect he had on Chris foreign and alarming and immensely, immensely powerful to his still racing heart.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan <3

The snows had set in with great urgency. The rolling hills surrounding Summer Valley became blanketed mounds of white, blending into the yawning sky, outlined only by the short line of bare-limbed trees at the edge of the property.

Tom’s projects dwindled down to only planning and drawing schematics, whatever construction still underway halted indefinitely for the winter months.

Workload lightened, he started spending more time on the weekdays at Summer Valley, trying to avoid the free-falling anxiety his grandmother’s cartwheeling memory caused him. But she had more good days than bad, still treating him with polite respect even when she didn’t recognize him. The incident where she had him removed from her room was never repeated, and she hadn’t become that upset since.

Visiting Summer Valley during the week meant he got to see more of Chris, too.

They would see each other in the hallways or edge around each other on the stairs, small, loaded smiles and quick hand touches before they had to continue on their way before any of the residents took notice of their lingering looks.

Sometimes, when the storm clouds outside gave the entire place a mystery novel kind of feel, with all the lamps lit and dark corners flickering, Chris would catch Tom’s hand and pull him into a deserted corridor.

Pressed hard against a wall, a potted plant obscuring them, Tom would gasp and arch against Chris, who loved to bury his face in Tom’s neck and mouth at the pale skin there, or nip at the hidden warmth beneath his collar. Quick and urgent, they would kiss, slotting their mouths together, tongues bumping, chests flush, Chris’s tool belt digging into the lean plane of Tom’s lower belly.

And it was only when voices were heard down the way that they separated, all heavy breaths and clinging hands, reluctant to let the other go. Kissing him fast one more time, Chris would slip into an empty room and Tom was left in the dark shadow of the potted plant, their secret spot, trembling and bruised-lipped.

It was obvious that their feelings were starting to become more burning and that furtive meetings in empty hallways weren’t going to be enough. Chris began to linger at the end of his days, watching out for Tom to exit the great house, casting glances over his shoulder before heading to where Chris leaned up against his truck. Inside the cab, they would bunch up together, the dumpsters hiding the fogged windows, their moans small and heavy with longing. Lying on his back, Chris pressing him into the seat, Tom began to believe that what they had might actually be the beginning of a relationship, that Chris wasn’t only just using him. They hadn’t had sex yet, but it was about more than just what Tom had offered so far—kisses only and lots and lots of cuddling; no, what Chris displayed made Tom feel listened to, made him feel noticed, like he mattered. Chris often visited Patricia with Tom, so keen on knowing when to step in when Tom felt the most lost, his grandmother’s nonchalant distance always so sudden and hurtful. Tom figured he should have been used to it by now, but he simply wasn’t. He refused. She was all he had left and he would take her rejection, however unmeaning and brief, if it meant he still had her in his life.

When not at Summer Valley, he and Chris went out together, first time dates turning into welcome recurrences. To dinner. To grab a drink after work. To the cinema. Tom took him to his first theatre performance— _Othello_ —and Chris showed Tom one of the surprisingly common car shows in central London.

Chris hadn't been back to Tom's house for more than a month, since the night Tom got drunk and they'd slept on his living room floor. But Tom had been to Chris's place a few times—a ground floor single bedroom condo with private back porch and access to a community pool and small gym. Chris had shelves in his living room of small model trucks and cars, mostly American, but some of German or Japanese origin. Professionally assembled, Tom figured, until shyly but proudly admitted that he'd assembled all the vehicles himself. A small hobby, he'd whispered to Tom, kissing up his neck. Chris had a simple style. Bare walls, clean floors, stacks of magazines on the coffee table and by the toilet. His bed was king-sized and a nest of pillows, cast in constant shadows by the dark drapes over the windows. The TV large, the bed large, the cups large, Tom was starting to see Chris's comfort expectancy, and it made him smile, how immediately at ease he felt in Chris's home.

After pacing nervously in the small kitchen of the big house one afternoon, he finally summoned enough courage to ask Chris to dinner at his flat. He'd been thinking about it for well over a week and had slowly started to plan what groceries to buy, and if he should serve wine or beer or some kind of iced tea. With Chris's apparent fascination with Americana, he thought southern iced tea would be something he would find humor in.

His mind made up, and his breathing as calm as he could manage, Tom left the kitchen and went to find Chris in the small office he kept in the back of the house, in what he figured had been servant's quarters when the house used to function as a private residence. It had shocked Tom the first time he'd been there, only once before, to see the office tucked into the large concave space just beneath a narrow servants’ staircase, which they’d used to access the main parts of the house. With a slanted ceiling and occasional floating dust motes from the staircase above it, the small space was hardly more than a cupboard, as one might imagine, but suited for Chris's needs. He had a desk with a computer monitor and keyboard, a three-drawer filing cabinet beside it and a shelf with spare tools, gardening gloves, and other miscellaneous items he'd collected over the years as maintenance man for the Summer Valley. His head barely grazed the ceiling, but after assuring Tom he wasn't claustrophobic, Tom could see that it was quiet and private and well out of the way of the rest of the staff and residents. Plus, he had the use of the entire room outside the cupboard— _office_ —where he kept even more tools and spare electric parts, disassembled ceiling fans, antique light switches, and a rather curious looking bureau drawer it seemed Chris was in the middle of varnishing.

Stepping through this confusing assortment of motley items, he approached the hinged door to the office. He could hear Chris typing away and when he approached the doorway, he found him hunched over his computer, fingers flying over the keyboard, eyes glued to the screen.

"Hi," Tom said, and Chris started, turning fast.

"Jesus, Tom," he said, hand on his chest. "Fucking scared the daylights out of me."

Tom held his hands up. "Sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you."

Chris beckoned him over and Tom stepped into the small room. Chris hugged him around his legs and pressed his face to Tom's belly.

"You never frighten me. But this house is ages old. Sometimes thing go creak and there's nothing there."

Tom smiled, carding a hand over Chris's hair. "Oh my. Seeing young women in hoop skirts and bonnets, are we?"

"More like young men in high-waisted trousers and straw in their teeth."

Tom squeezed his ear affectionately. "Naughty maintenance man."

Chris nuzzled him again. "For you, yes."

Tom swallowed. It was now or never. "So, I'm heading home a bit early today. I left Patricia in bed. She's hearing an old recording of Frank Sinatra on the iPod I got her. She loves the thing."

Chris laughed and leaned back in his seat, keeping a hand on the back of Tom's thigh. Tom cleared his throat. "Listen, I was wondering if you maybe wanted to come by my place after work. For dinner. I thought I'd cook something up tonight. For the both of us."

The grin grew slowly on Chris's face and his eyes were so bright on Tom that Tom started to fidget.

"I would love to," Chris said quietly. "What time should I be over?"

"Seven thirty?"

Chris stood, and suddenly the small office seemed crowded. "I'll be there." He kissed Tom softly, his full lips covering Tom's thin mouth in pure warmth. "I'll bring dessert."

And Tom didn't know if that was some kind of double entendre, but with Chris smiling after him, he managed a quick nod before fleeing the office, red faced, entreating his courage to stay.

**

On the way home from Summer Valley, he stopped by a drug store and bought a small pack of condoms and a bottle of lube. From their many make out sessions, Tom had been able to discern— _feel_ —Chris's size, and he was big. He felt thick, enough that Tom had paled the first time he'd felt it against his hip. Tom himself was of a rather decent size. Longish. All the more reason men wanted him to top. It had been a while since he'd been in the situation to even contradict anyone, but he had a feeling he and Chris would be paired nicely.

With Churchill's 1940 speech to the House of Commons playing from his iPod—"Let us therefore brace ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, 'This was their finest hour'—" he cooked all evening, chopping tomatoes and boiling the pasta, and stored everything in the oven to stay warm. With his recently purchased items tucked away safely in his bedside drawer, Tom changed his sheets and tidied up his bedroom, worrying over the smallest detail. Should he light candles? If only just for scent? Muttering, he bypassed the candles and jumped in the shower to give himself a thorough scrub. Afterward, he picked up his living room, arranging a vase of white and yellow flowers on the coffee table, before finally sitting at the table, foot bouncing, a glass of red wine before him. He'd dressed in blue slacks and a white button down, hoping that wasn't too dressy, but still semi casual and showed Chris he cared very much, but then that he might not care at all if things didn't turn out as he hoped. He took another sip of wine, trying to stay calm, sincerely hoping things turned out as he hoped.

He sipped more wine, Churchill keeping him company, lisping along, "…unwearied in their constant challenge and mortal danger, are turning the tide of the World War by their prowess and by their devotion. Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few."

When he heard a familiar rumble down the street, he jumped up and ran to the door. The peephole gave his front yard a fishbowl view, but he spotted a slip of the red and white of Chris's truck in the moist globed orbs of the street lamps.

Tom turned and took in his home, making sure everything was in its place. He forced himself to walk into the kitchen, to slowly take out the dishes of food from the oven, spread them on the counter. He already had two sets of plates and cutlery laid out and was aligning them carefully when he heard the knocks.

Smoothing his hands down his trousers, he took a deep breath and, turning off his iPod, went to open the door.

Chris stood there, wrapped in a jacket and scarf, red-cheeked and loose-haired. He held a pie in his hands.

"Darling, come in," Tom cried, reaching out and taking his arm. He pulled Chris inside, rubbing his arms, flakes of snow drifting to the floor.

"Hi, baby," Chris said. He leaned in for a kiss, and Tom met his lips shyly. "Dessert." He presented the pie to Tom. "It's American apple pie."

Tom took the pie. He rolled his eyes. "Oh lord. You and your America."

"Please. I'm not the one who listens to scratchy recordings of dead presidents."

Tom very nearly pouted. One night they had been on the phone together, Chris had asked who was with Tom when he heard a voice in the background. "It's not only American presidents. I listen to prime ministers too."

Chris winked and kissed his forehead. "My historian."

He shed his coat and scarf and hung them on the peg next to the door before following Tom into the kitchen. "It smells so good in here. What did you make?"

Tom started ladling food onto their plates. "Pasta with tomatoes and oregano. And a side salad with some rolls."

"Mmm, babe," Chris whispered, sidling up behind Tom and touching his waist, lips at Tom's neck. "You're a man after my own heart."

Tom laughed, skin racing with chills. "Hush now and take the wine to the table."

"Yes, sir." Another kiss on his nape and Chris was gone, leaving Tom feeling cold without him.

Tom served their plates and put out the salad bowl and bread rolls. Tom enjoyed watching Chris eat, relished in his small noises of pleasure, the lashes falling closed in content.

"Are you playing it up just to spare my feelings?" he asked teasingly.

Chris's head swiveled. "I am not! This is bloody good. Pasta so soft," he said, meeting Tom's eye. "Dripping with sauce."

Tom's mouth went dry and he took a hasty drink of wine. "Good," he managed after a moment. "I'm glad you like it."

Chris chuckled and continued eating.

Afterward, they crowded around the sink and washed and dried the dishes, Chris explaining to him the multiple times he'd visited the United States, Tom piping in with questions about what he liked or didn't like about the cities he tacked off on the map.

Tom served them another glass of wine and they moved into the living room, sitting on the sofa.

"I never thought I’d have a happy memory about sleeping on the floor," sighed Chris, tapping his foot on the carpet. "I never expected to wake up and find you lying with me."

Tom smiled. "It must have seemed like I was avoiding your touch, any touch, in the beginning, but I do like to consider myself physically affectionate. I'm just..." He shrugged, sipping some wine. "Shy at first."

Chris watched him drink, eyes flitting down to his lips. He set his wine glass down and scooted closer. He took Tom's free hand. "Tom, I can't begin to tell you how happy I am that we've started to get to know each other. I've wanted to since...well, since forever ago."

Tom set his wineglass beside Chris's on the table. "I am too. I've been very happy these last few weeks. You're an amazing friend to me."

Chris's brow puckered. He smiled, a little small, uncertain smile. "Only a friend?"

Tom reddened and inched closer. "You know better than to believe that, Christopher."

Chris's breath caught and he licked his lips. "Good, because I've been thinking of you as my boyfriend and I really want to know if you feel the same."

Nodding, Tom touched the sleeve of Chris's shirt, fingers curling. "I do."

Closing the distance between them, Chris moaned when their lips touched, locking with sweet urgency. With an insistent nudge, Tom's tongue pushed into Chris's mouth, and the other made a pleased noise before reaching to gather Tom close in his arms. They kissed and broke apart, kissing harder still. Reclining low on the sofa, Chris draped over him, Tom sighed against that warm neck, fingers scrabbling on Chris's button-down, the other nudging his hips against Tom, both hardening in their excitement.

Perched heavy between Tom's open legs, Chris guided Tom's hands above his head. He held them there in one palm, the other running up the lean slope of Tom's waist. Through the material of his shirt, Chris mouthed at Tom's nipple, sucking at the tiny little nub, eyes lifted to Tom as he arched. Chris smiled and switched to the other.

"Oh, darling, yes. Just like that..." He whined and tossed back his head, loving the feel of Chris restraining his hands, able to get loose if he wanted to. But he didn't want to. Not at all.

Feeling bruised and sensitive, they drew back with heaving gasps, eyeing each other before Tom rasped, "Bedroom."

Chris nodded and hurried to his feet, taking Tom's hands and lifting him. They rushed down the hall, bumping into the walls, hands roaming, lips desperate to suck more bruises on tender skin. In the bedroom, Tom kicked the door closed and guided them to the bed. In the dark, he fumbled to switch on the bedside lamp, and when the light finally illuminated Chris standing before him, all swollen lips and blown pupils and mussed hair, he moaned and fell right back against him, arms wrapped around those broad shoulders, mouths slotted. They undressed each other, fingers trembling on buttons, on zippers, dragging down trousers and tossing away wrinkled shirts, Tom's feeling moist and cool from Chris's attention. Standing only in his boxers, Tom looked down at Chris's briefs and his mouth watered, wanting to see him for the first time and not just as a hot impression against his hip.

He reached for Chris's waist, but Chris stopped him. "Wait, baby. Just...just tell me what you're good with. I want to make you feel good. Anything you really like? Or don’t like?"

Mind a bit hazy, Tom struggled to think. He suddenly drew up a blank. "I like...lots of things, darling. So much. But as for don'ts...I mean, I'll let you know if something isn't working. Um...I don't know...no hitting me in the face?"

Chris frowned. "Why would I—" His eyes narrowed. "Babe, has someone tried to hit you in the face before?"

Tom grabbed at him. "No! My darling, no. But I know that can be a thing with some people. I like being spanked and a good yank on my hair, but no slapping my face. I just know some people like that. And I don't."

Chris's brows were still drawn low, a little angry, and Tom felt a tendril of excitement twist through his belly at seeing Chris's protective instincts flaring. But he seemed to calm enough and nod, drawing Tom close for more kisses. "Good. Because no one's going to hurt you. Not even me. I'll shoot myself in the fucking foot first."

"Darling," Tom moaned and they collapsed back against the bed, their body weight making the mattress bounce and creak. They rolled and Tom found himself above Chris, lips and kisses smacking loudly in the room.

"Baby," Chris grunted, hands tight on Tom's hips. They undulated and both felt their hard cocks, a throbbing ache driving them to fevered panting. Chris tugged on his boxers. "Take them off. Please. Take them off."

Leaving Chris leaning up on his elbows, Tom climbed off and stood before him. His boxers were tented and his trembling only increased under that hooded blue gaze. Chris was even more beautiful in the yellow and washed out light of the bedside lamp. Cast golden, every ridge of his muscles and long limbs stood out starkly, and gave Tom the sudden courage to remove his last item of clothing. Kicking his boxers away, he straightened and forced himself to meet Chris's eyes, which were wide. He sat up.

"Fuck me," he whispered and Tom whimpered, stiff hands curling, because yes please. Soft fingers touched his belly and he flinched. Chris's eyes darted up to meet him. "It's alright, love. You're trembling, baby. But it's alright. You're so beautiful." Eyes back on his belly, hips, thighs, cock, Chris shook his head. "You have no idea."

Tom had always known he was somewhat attractive. Men—and women—would stare after him in the street, turning back to watch him as he walked along the pavement, or hover near him on the Underground, so that he turned only an inch and there was a chest pressed up against him, or a pair of eyes across the car that darted away a second too slowly. He was tall and lean and had thin, but strong, muscles roping his limbs and torso. With a light dusting of hair and a darker trail below his belly button, Tom had known from a very young age what he wanted. But it wasn't always what other men wanted from him. And so the hesitation. But Chris was staring at him with open wonder in his eyes, big hands coming to bracket Tom's hips, smooth down his thighs, curving in to cup his knees. Tom, misty eyed and gasping, angled his pelvis out and Chris, licking his lips and slipping down to kneel, kissed the tip of his cock once.

"Oh...god," Tom whispered, and without further hesitation, Chris took him in his mouth, that wet heat sealing over him, sucking at the tip, sliding down partway, his hand coming up to fist at the rest. His head bobbed, mouth so hot on him. His free hand came to cup at this balls, fingers sliding between his legs to rub at his perineum. Standing on wobbly legs, Tom feared he wouldn't make it, it was too much. And when Chris moaned, he decided he couldn't make it, and quickly tugged on Chris's shoulders.

"You're going to make me shoot off like a twelve-year-old," he said, gasping through his smiles. Chris laughed, sliding back up to sit on the edge of the bed and yanking off his own briefs. Tom stared down. He was thick, just as Tom had imagined, with fat veins and a bundle of coarse blond hair at the root of it, just like Tom. His heart was like a fluttering moth and he wanted him inside. Now.

"Here," he said, bending and digging through the drawer. He brought out a couple of condoms and the lube. He handed them to Chris, who took them gently and marveled up at him, wide-eyed.

"On your back," he said and Tom hurried to position himself. Reclining, he took a few shuddery breaths, hands clenching on the sheets. Chris knelt on the floor and Tom squeezed his legs shut. With the light and Chris's face being right there, Tom knew his most private self would be on display.

Chris set aside the condom and the lube and rubbed his cheek over Tom's shin, hands smoothing down his calves, curling at his ankles, lips breathing warm at his knees. "You're beautiful, baby. So beautiful. I've thought about this for so long. And you're even more perfect than I imagined. Let me take care of you. Let me see you."

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Tom caught his eyes and they were so full and loving, thick-lashed and shadowed, that he felt his chest loosen. Breathing out, he relaxed and let his legs fall open.

Chris's mouth parted, eyes darting over his core. Tom stared at the ceiling, face burning. He twitched when gentled kisses traced down the inside of his thigh, tickling so that Tom almost snapped his legs back together. But then he heard the cap of the bottle of lube, and after another short moment, he felt long calloused fingers at his hole, edging along it gently. Using his fingertip, Chris nudged, testing the give, and when he found resistance, he moaned and gathered closer to Tom.

"Talk to—" _Me_ , Tom had started to say, but Chris beat him to it.

"I can't believe you're here in front of me." He nudged harder and Tom tilted his hips, feeling drugged and reeling. "I've thought of you. Of your skin on mine. Of what you would sound like." He breached and Tom winced, eyes flying open. "Of your voice in my ear. Of how I would show you...how much you mean to me." His finger started pumping and Tom moaned, lifting his head to see. "Fuck, babe. You're so tight. I'm going to need to put at least three fingers, okay?"

"Nyuh." Teeth gritted, Tom nodded his head.

Chris tried for a second finger. "And watching you all these years, I could see you were the sweetest boy. Rosy-cheeked and shy." Two fingers pumping. Tom collapsed back, voice gone. "I knew you would be so lovely and kind. And you're funny and snarky when you’re drunk and a little sarcastic, and I love it all."

"Darling," Tom whispered, and felt Chris breach his third finger. " _Fuck_."

"Mmm, god yes," Chris groaned, holding Tom's trembling legs wide with one hand, caressing him to keep him still.

Tom lifted his head, throat tight and hoarse. "Now? Please now?"

Nodding fast, Chris gently pried his fingers loose and Tom's legs slammed shut again. Chris nodded, tearing open the condom packet. "I love how timid you are. But I'll get you so used to me. Just wait." Tears gathering, Tom watched as he rolled the condom on and tossed the wrapper away. Lubing himself up some more, Chris crawled over Tom and took him under his arms, lifting and settling him over the middle of the bed. Tom gasped, never having been handled so easily like that before, like he weighed nothing, was some kind of doll. His hands circled Chris's biceps, starting to fully understand his strength.

"You ready, love?"

Tom made a low sound, nodding, because that's about all he seemed capable of. Chris angled Tom's legs out, and took himself in hand. The fat tip pressed against his hole and tilted his hips low, pushing in.

"Slow! Slow, darling...god." They watched Chris sink in, each inch stretching Tom wide. He let his head drop back, the top of his closet upside down in his vision. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he breathed. "God, yes."

Chris stared down at him, hair like a curtain around his face. "Goddamn, you're gorgeous. Baby, I can’t imagine why anyone would ever want you to top. Look at you. You were made to take cock.”

Heat flushed up Tom's neck, but he basked in the praise, casting his eyes down.

Chris grinned. "There you are." He grimaced. "Just a little more."

When he was fully seated, the root vibrating against Tom's flesh, they lay panting, limbs straining, eyes wide on each other.

"Okay?" Chris rasped, holding himself up on both arms.

"Yes! Let me feel you. Just for a moment. Come here, love."

Chris eased his weight onto Tom until their chests were flush. They kissed slow, soft, tongues winding. Tom felt filled to the brim, needing the extra moment to adjust to Chris's girth. Was he imagining that pulse inside him, beating with his own? And in the trembling body of the man above him, Tom could feel the restrained power, the checked strength, knew that with a few well landed thrusts, Chris could either deliver him to ecstasy or unimaginable pain.

Tom took a shuddering breath, steadying himself.

Wrapping him close, Chris rubbed their noses together. "Babe, I—."

"Oh, god, you're not coming, are you?" Tom's eyes were heavy, barely aware of what he was saying, his concentration focused on the pleasure he felt creeping through his body.

Laughing, delighted, Chris buried his face in Tom's neck. "There's the snark. I knew it was in there somewhere."

"Shut up," Tom whispered, pouting, embarrassed and thrilled. "Please move. You can move."

"Gladly," Chris groaned, and drew his hips back. He slid out until only the tip was left in, and then pushed again, both groaning at the tight grip. Moving a little faster, Chris pumped his hips, studying Tom's face, driving in stronger with each thrust. Gathering Tom in his arms, he caught each of Tom's tiny cries in his mouth, swallowing down that need blooming violently in them both.

"Yes...yes...yes..." Tom whimpered with every shove, rocking beneath Chris, his cock flattened between their bellies. And when Chris brushed his prostate, he arched, eyes squeezed shut. "Oh... _Fuck please_!"

Desperate, Chris scrambled to his knees, gripping Tom's hips and hauling him to the seat of his lap, long legs falling limply to either side of him.

"Yeah, baby? You like that? Stuffed with my cock? Fucking you hard?"

Tom's blood started buzzing, his skin alight in some kind of charged vibration because he stared at his boyfriend— _boyfriend_ —and shivered with the force of it, his strength, all of that adoration, Tom begged for it, pined for it, arched with the need for it.

"Yes, my darling. Yes, fuck me. Good and hard."

"I love that filthy mouth on you. No one else to hear that filth..." He grunted, hooking his hands under Tom's bottom and pounding in hard. Tom cried out, because _yes, right there_.

But before he could come, Chris stopped, breathing ragged, and collapsed over Tom again. Folding himself close, Chris kissed him, over and over, sweet little pecks and great devouring embraces. Tears leaking, Tom sobbed quietly, running his hands through those long strands, feeling the moist heat coming off Chris's scalp, the sweat dripping down his face.

"You're beautiful, Chris," he wept, pulling him closer by the neck. "And you're mine."

Chris opened his eyes, just as full as his, lashes heavy with unshed tears, and smiled.

"All yours, my Tom."

And then he started moving again. Out of the corner of Tom's eye, he saw Chris's hand snake around his head and slip into his hair, fingers clenching gently. Head tugged back, neck arched, the added stimulation against his prostate and the pressing weight of Chris's belly on his cock, had Tom coming in moments, spurting thickly on his chest and neck, the hot ribbons pulsing, Chris's eyes gone wide.

Frantic now, hips stuttering, he sought his own release and found it seconds later, crying out and squeezing Tom in his arms, fingers tight in his hair again. Pulses, small, tiny pulses inside and Tom grinned lazily, flexing his lower muscles, adoring the pained moan Chris gave.

Breathless, collapsed and boneless, they rested, all sweaty limbs and racing hearts.

After a moment, Chris kissed Tom's lips and then slipped out, walking into the bathroom to remove the condom. Tom was a tangled bundle of soreness, legs, stomach, _bottom_. And he was exactly where Chris had left him when he returned a minute later with a warm cloth.

"Baby," Chris cooed, stretching out beside him. He wiped at Tom's chest and neck, and then put the towel to the side. Tom grunted when Chris drew him close, rolling him gently so they faced each other. He brushed Tom's hair back, eyes small with concern. "Are you okay?"

Already Tom's eyes were closing, feeling heavy and dazed. Cuddling against his neck, Tom nodded. "Mmhmm. Wonderful. I feel so wonderful." It wasn't his finest vocabulary feat.

"Good," Chris murmured, resting against him, heavy and moist. "Me, too."

They dozed for some time. The sky was still dark outside when he roused, the lamp still lit beside the bed, and Chris was asleep. Hair fanned out, brows drawn in a small frown, Chris clung to him, hands wide on his back, a leg settled between Tom's thighs. Tom felt over his bottom, not daring to touch himself yet, but he was sore. He would feel it for days. Still, Tom was content to lie in bed unable to walk if it meant Chris was the one who'd caused it.

Slowly, Tom lifted a hand and touched Chris's forehead softly, the frown disappearing instantly. His cheek was dusted with stubble and his full lips were parted, murmuring something indistinct. Tom smiled, and bit his lip to keep in his giggle. But then Chris cracked open an eye and Tom knew he was caught.

"Staring, are you?"

Tom shrugged. "You're adorable when you sleep."

Chris stretched and then snuggled into Tom. "Mm, good. I'm glad I didn't drool on you."

Tom laughed and they knocked noses trying to kiss the other first.

"Ow!" Tom exclaimed, grabbing his face. He collapsed back, cackling.

"You bumped me. I'm innocent!"

They fell back in a fit of giggles and finally calmed, limbs tangled.

"I want pie," Tom announced and Chris's head snapped up, eyes wide.

"We forgot the pie!" He scrambled up. "Be right back!" He dashed out the door, his pale bottom disappearing down the darkened hallway, and Tom took the chance to situate himself against the headboard, wincing from the small twinge of pain in his lower back.

Chris hurried back in and closed the door with his foot. Tom was positive he’d never seen anything more beautiful, this sculpted, naked man gleefully carrying dessert to his bed. Climbing in beside him, Chris held the entire pie and two forks in both hands. "Think we can?" he asked, looking at the dessert in question.

Tom rolled his eyes and leaned into his side. He snagged a fork. "Of course we can. Me first."

Tom scooped pie into his mouth and Chris stared, smiling. "You first," he whispered, following Tom's lead. In the end, they actually couldn’t finish it, despite their best efforts. They ate less than half, elbowing each other and clanging forks and snorting in an attempt to make the other laugh and steal more of the pie. Afterward, pie set aside, they lay sated against the pillows, drowsy again and full. Hands clasped and faces inches apart, eyes blinking slower and slowly, they finally fell asleep again, content and connected through fingers laced.

**

It was sometime past midnight when Tom woke again, sore and sweating. They were curled up together over the sheets, but the room was stifling and he realized he forgot to lower the heat. That, and Chris was like a human-shaped furnace. Arm thrown over him, Chris snored lightly at his back, face pressed between Tom’s shoulder blades. Carefully, he slipped out from under him and limped to the window. His leg muscles felt tight and his bottom tender, but he walked on, pushing aside the curtains. It was dark out, but small flurries of snow fluttered past. Tom imagined there would be hills of it by morning, piled up against the windowpanes, icing over the driveway.

Turning back, he saw the large mound that was Chris on the bed, and Tom felt like pinching himself, just to make sure it wasn’t some elaborate dream. But no, there he was, sleeping still, long body relaxed, pale feet hanging off the bed. The bruises and aches on Tom’s body were real, too, and he skimmed a hand down his belly remembering, like a burning, why they would slowly darken over his skin.

Slipping into his boxers, he took the half-eaten apple pie from the bedside table, and tiptoed from the room and down the hall. He couldn’t help the limp. He would feel that ache for days.

It was cooler in the kitchen, the tile chilling his feet. The clock on the microwave read 3:26 as he leaned against the stove, looking out into the night, the falling snow hypnotizing almost, lulling him into a doze until he startled and forced his legs to move. He stored the pie in the fridge and was setting the forks quietly in the sink when the floor creaked behind him. He spun, gasping, and then there was a mouth against his mouth, long arms wrapping around him, pressing him back against the counter.

Heart racing, Tom moaned when he felt long hair against his cheek, and he relaxed into Chris’s embrace, letting the other manhandle him in a way that made Tom’s legs loose. He loved that Chris could so easily move him how he pleased, with no sign of strain or fatigue, but still conscious of not hurting Tom, being careful with his grip, with the force of his weight. As if to prove this thought, Chris took him by the waist and lifted him to the countertop, stepping between his legs and kissing him again, the heat of their tongues alarming in the cool air, the sharp countertop edge biting into Tom’s thighs.

“You step so lightly,” Tom managed, gasping against his lips.

“I missed you in bed,” Chris said, hands roaming Tom’s back, fingers thrumming over his spine. His lips were so full, Tom mused, tracing a thumb over the bottom lip, so different from his own. Now that his eyes had adjusted, he could see the dark outline of Chris before him, the shining spark of his eyes winking. And he was naked.

Tom chuckled, unable to help his nerves. "I was gone for a minute."

"I missed you," Chris repeated, softer still, forehead against Tom's shoulder. "How are you feeling?" His hand drifted to Tom's lower back, and Tom understood.

He ducked his head sheepishly. "A little sore still."

"Okay," Chris said, nuzzling his cheek. "We can wait."

But when they fell back into bed two minutes later, Tom pulled Chris over him and opened his legs.

Chris cupped his cheek. “Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m sure. Positive. Go slow, my darling. Gentle.”

Hurrying to put a condom on and slick himself, Chris teased Tom's hole with the tip of his cock, eyes wide on Tom’s face as he hissed, anchoring his heel behind Chris's thigh, urging him on. Very slowly, thick width spearing, Chris slipped in, stopping halfway, pulling back to push in with more speed.

Tom's breath forced out, and he lay still, muscles tight, until Chris sank deep.

"Easy,” Chris murmured, holding still, watching him.

Tom, hands braced on Chris, nodded, exhaling shakily.

Taking Tom's leg over his elbow, Chris began pumping, the lube easing the stretch. But still Tom grimaced, two spots of color flushing high on his cheeks.

"Baby," Chris whispered, worried, palming his neck. Tom moaned and raised his chin, mouth parting. Given more room, Chris flexed his hand and pressed down slightly, engulfing Tom’s throat entirely.

The noise Tom made, half whine half cry, was like a streak of light straight to Chris's groin and his hips shot forward, slamming in harder than before.

"Fuck, babe," he groaned, teeth clenched, hair fanning between them. "Like this?"

"Yes," Tom rasped, lashes fluttering heavy.

He swiveled his hips, trying to meet Chris's thrusts, and Chris looked down between them to where he disappeared into Tom, dizzy with the need for him. It was like craving a drink after a long day's hike, or like the first hint of dawn after a long lonely night, or like realizing somebody needed him as much as he needed them.

Stopping on a deep thrust, he planted his weight on Tom and wrapped his arms beneath him, flipping them slowly so that he was now beneath Tom. Tom whined in surprise, hanging tight to Chris's shoulders as gravity settled him heavy on top. Straddling him, he held his breath a moment, feeling Chris still buried deep. He sat up and gave his hips a little tilt, smiling wide at Chris beneath him.

"You're gorgeous," Chris whispered, hands roaming over Tom's belly and up to his chest. "Like I've never seen another person before." Tom laughed, abundantly amused and frankly, delighted. Leaning his hands on Chris’s chest, he started moving his hips forward and back, the drag and pull of Chris’s cock so different at that angle. Faster now, he started to bounce, lifting and falling, and Chris groaned, grasping his thighs.

Bending at the waist, Tom stole kiss after kiss, winding his fingers in Chris’s hair, his cock resting heavy and wet between them. Taking Chris’s wrist gently, he brought his hand back up to his neck, and Chris squeezed, licking his lips.

It went quickly after that, Tom rutting down onto Chris, whose big hand tightened and tightened over his throat until Tom was gasping and coming hard, voice gently strangled low. He buckled, boneless, onto Chris, inhaling deep. Chris wrapped his arms around Tom and planted his heels on the bed. Fucking up into him, he came moments later, lips pressed tight to Tom’s sticky forehead.

Catching their breath, they lay trembling and quiet, until Chris chuckled and cupped Tom’s face. “You really like that, don’t you?”

“Mm, what?” Tom murmured, about to let sleep take him as he counted Chris’s heart beats. A thumb slid over his Adam’s apple.

“Being choked.”

Tom tensed. He raised his head, feeling Chris slip out of him. “Was it too soon? Too fast for you?”

Chris rose next to him. “Are you kidding? Baby, no. I really liked that too. I want you to be comfortable. To be completely in it with me. I want you to enjoy yourself and not be afraid of judgment.” He took Tom’s hand. “We’ll discover this together, okay? Our likes and dislikes. Making love with you is like the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Tom smiled. “I highly doubt that.”

“Don’t doubt me now,” Chris growled, pulling him close. “I’ll have to spank you.”

He touched his fingers to Tom’s ribs and Tom bent double laughing. “Stop! That tickles!”

“Do I have to spank you? Huh?”

They rolled and Tom found himself pressed flat to the bed. They huffed, staring at each other.

A heat rose over Tom’s face. “You’re discovering them one by one, aren’t you, darling?”

Chris practically melted, sighing into Tom as he eased down over him. “Oh my god, babe. We’re going to die in this bed, aren’t we?”

Tom gathered him close and giggled. “Definitely. Hey…” He looked down between them.

Following his gaze, Chris gasped. “The condom!” He jumped up and ran to the bathroom to remove it, leaving Tom on the bed, tears spilling, laughing into his hands.

**

_< Are you really my boyfriend?> _

Tom smiled when he checked his phone. Looking up to see that no one was by his office, he replied.

_< Are you mine?>_

_< I came in you again this morning. I kinda think of you as mine now>_

Tom grinned. “Possessive minx.” Even now, he fidgeted in his seat, his bottom sore from sex twice in the night and again before Chris left for work. He smiled, remembering their abandon.

_< Only technically. But I am so proud of you for remembering to remove your condom.> _

_< That was one time!> _

_< a hilarious time :) are you in your cupboard?>_

_< yes, hunched over. very busy, no one bother me. no I cannot reach to get this or that.> _

_< ha little darlings. they adore you so much.>_

_< I know they do. I adore them too.>_

_< How's Patricia?> _

_< Vibrant. She's outside by the willow with her friends.>_

_< She's outside??>_

_< Calm down love. It's actually nice out. Warm.>_

Frowning, he winced as he rose from his desk—littered with light blue onion-thin paper of schematics and plans drawn out in precise lines, rulers and professional eraser shavings—to look out his sixth floor window. The sun was shining brightly, surprisingly, with few snow clouds and miles of blue sky. The window was cold when he pressed his palm to it and, following its line of direction, his eyes spanned across the city to where he knew Summer Valley lay, outside of the city, in the country, where the absence of metal buildings and concrete roadways allowed the wind to blow freely.

_Ok_ , he replied. _I won't be able to see her today. Not til Saturday._

_< I'll watch her. She's just fine.>_

_< Thank you, darling. Anything for you.>_

Tom clutched the phone to his chest, and then forced himself to return to his work.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan <3

What started out as dinners every couple of days, either home cooked or at a restaurant downtown, turned into a daily ritual. One or the other would spend the night and they would wake for breakfast, Chris usually needing to hurry and get dressed for work at the big house. Tom's schedule allowed him to be more flexible with his time, and he liked to lounge in bed after Chris had departed with sweet kisses and fevered promises to return. He would sleep in some more and not shower until late, running water-slicked hands over every bruise and hickey and love bite.

His grandmother, when he did visit, would smile this secret smile, as if she knew all about their nocturnal activities, violent and gentle and urgent all at once. When she had seen them after they had made love for the first time, she took Tom's elbow and guided him to the window.

"Tom!" she'd said, touching his cheek. "You look lovely, darling. You're positively glowing."

Red-faced, he'd turned to Chris, who watched them from his position against the doorjamb, arms crossed and looking mighty proud of himself.

Tom didn't know what it was about his face that so gave him away. The few times he'd taken to studying himself in the mirror, he could see no difference. Chris was careful with how he marked Tom, making sure the bruises weren't visible. Glowing wasn't exactly how Tom would describe himself, but if he had to put his finger on it, the only thing he could tell was that he smiled more often. Nearly always now, actually. He caught himself smiling when he passed a store's glass window display, or in the elevator doors of his office building, or in the fogged surface of a passing taxi. He always tried to school his features back into a serious nonchalance, but often, a smile would creep back over his lips, brought on by some other memory of Chris.

Patricia often still referred to Chris as Christoph, falling into some long forgotten conversation where he and Tom were only lesser characters of the distant past rather than the close friends they were to her in the present.

She moved from one craft project to another, forgetting the year, the queen, Tom's name. It was hard for him to tell if her condition was worsening, as she had moments of alarming lucidity, recalling details he and Chris had shared with her about their date the weekend before, or what they planned on doing for the holidays. Chris was flying to Australia to visit with his parents and two brothers and Tom would spend it with her at Summer Valley.

“I wish you could come with me,” Chris said one evening at Tom’s place. They were on the living room floor and he was helping Tom wrap gifts for Patricia.

Tom paused, an inch of tape dangling from a finger. “You want me to go to Australia with you?”

It was a testament to the amount of time they’d spent together that Tom was able to see the small blush on Chris’s face. Chris rubbed the back of his neck. “Well yeah. I mean, I would love to show you where I grew up. Go to the beach. Surf.”

Tom smiled and continued his wrapping. “I can’t surf.”

“I’ll teach you.” Chris took a sip of iced tea. “And anyway, I’d really love to be able to introduce you to Liam and Luke. And my parents.”

Tom looked up at him, forgetting the half wrapped gift before him. “Your family?”

“Yes. But, I mean,” Chris said, running a hand through his hair. “Only if you want to. I don’t want to pressure you into anything.” He looked down and returned to cutting paper.

Tom crawled close and touched his cheek. “My darling.” Chris lifted his eyes to meet his, and they were round and slightly guarded, afraid of what Tom might say. “I would love to. It would be a privilege to meet your family, to see where you ran around as a child, a tanned and wild-haired little boy, skin patched with sticky sand.”

Chris took a deep breath. “But?”

Tom sighed. “But I can’t leave her. I just can’t. I’m so sorry.”

He nodded and slipped his hand into Tom’s. “I understand. And I know you can’t leave her. It was…it was stupid to ask.”

“No! No, my darling. It wasn’t! You have no idea how much I want to go. To travel with you. Please, can we plan something after the holidays? Early spring? How is the water then, darling?” He stroked Chris’s hair, tucking a strand behind his ear. Chris grinned and relaxed into Tom’s embrace.

“It’s perfect. The water is perfect.”

Tom leaned their foreheads together, and then dipped his chin to kiss him softly. “I can’t wait.”

**

“Like that.”

“Tom—.”

“Harder, my darling.”

“Fuck, you’re amazing.”

“ _Chris_.”

“I’m here, baby. I’m right here. Look at me.”

Tom did, and in those eyes, the brightest blue, lashes thick and curled, he saw an adoration that stole his breath, an emotion that seemed to overwhelm Chris, who licked his lips and thrust harder, hips jutting forward with less control. On the bed, Tom bounced beside him, spooned into Chris’s embrace, knees squeezed together, trapping his own erection against his belly.

The room was dark and the night was bleeding into dawn, but they had found each other in the blankets and joined together and now were so close, so close.

Chris moaned his name, one arm under Tom’s neck, circling it, the other hand gripping his hips. Tom’s eyes fluttered and he arched his back, letting Chris angle him just right. As he whined from lack of air and Chris’s filthy murmuring, Tom felt the coil in his core finally release and he came with a muted cry, spilling heavily on the towel Chris had laid out under him. Frantic now, Chris tightened his arm around Tom’s neck and climbed on top of him, fucking Tom into the mattress face down.

“Oh… _darling_ ,” Tom moaned, stifled as Chris huffed over him. Sluggish, he lay still as Chris finished, stuttering his hips to a stop, rough and growling low in his chest. He pulsed in Tom, but Tom didn’t feel that warm gush of his climax, and he thought, blinking through his haze, that he greatly wanted to feel Chris’s come in him, feel it fill him up, trickle out of him, feel the flood of it and know he was truly, unequivocally, Chris’s.

Chris shuddered, his hips giving small jumps, before pulling out and tearing the condom off, dumping it into the bin by the bed. He tugged the towel out from under Tom, who protested vaguely at having to move. He crumpled it up and dropped it to the floor to wash in the morning. And as he embraced Tom from behind, lips sliding over the tender skin of Tom's neck, he sighed and tucked Tom closer, Tom who was already lacing their fingers together, already asleep, already dreaming of him.

**

It was a windy, freezing day two weeks before Christmas when Tom got the call at work. It was Tess, from Summer Valley.

He sensed the alarm in her voice immediately. “Tom? Please, you must come down to Summer Valley. It’s urgent—.”

He dropped his pencil. “What’s happened? Is Patricia alright?”

“She’s had a seizure, Tom. Only a minute ago. The doctor and nurses are still in with her, but I rushed to call you.”

His heart rose to his throat and he struggled to swallow past the lump. “Thank you, Tess. I’ll be right there!” He hung up and left his office, racing down the side stairwell rather than waiting for the elevators. Not having anticipated going to Summer Valley that day, Tom had left his car at home and taken the Underground to work. Now he dashed through the streaming crowd descending below street level, his panic rising, making his chest tight as he muttered his excuses and pleas for people to hurry.

He barely made it through the doors into the first train, slipping on melted water from people’s wet clothes, catching himself on the closest metal pole. It wasn’t until then that he realized he was shivering, his coat still clutched in one hand, forgotten as he raced through the streets. Patting his pockets, he discovered his cell phone was missing, probably still back on his desk. Picking his way through the crowd, he collapsed onto an empty seat, squeezed between a priest and a rather large woman dressed head to foot in blazing red. Taking a moment to finally breathe, a great wave of fear crashed over Tom's heart, and he buried his face in his hands and wept.

**

Chris was just returning from outside, face frozen and hair stuffed beneath a woolen cap Patricia had made for him, when he saw two nurses rush past. He stamped his boots on the outer stoop, leaving the snow shovel leaning against the wall outside, before closing the door quickly to ward off the cold wind.

The nurses disappeared around the corner and he frowned, wondering what was happening. But then he remembered the spare generator battery he’d left charging in his office and he turned the opposite way to check its progress. It wasn’t until an hour later that he emerged again, the main part of the house quiet and subdued. There was no one around, not even behind the front desk, and he started to get a bad feeling in his gut. He went first to the great dining hall, where most of the residents were crowded around the large fireplace. In the corner before the windows facing the rear grounds, he saw Mabel and Amelie, Mable’s hand sneaking out to pat Amelie lightly on her forearm. His pulse spiked, worried, but he hurried to them, measuring his steps so as not to alarm the other residents.

“Mabel,” he said quietly, kneeling beside her chair. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

She turned watery eyes to him, touching his hand with her frail fingers. “Oh, Chris. Little giant,” she said, referring to him by the nickname she’d given him from the first moment she’d seen him four years before. “We’re fine. Just so sad.”

“What’s happened?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t what he thought.

“Patricia,” Amelie said from Mabel’s other side, and Chris’s heart fell.

He inched closer. “Tell me. Please.”

“Had a severe seizure,” Mabel said, sniffing, blinking out at the snowfall. “About an hour ago.”

“But is she okay? Where is she?” He was already reaching for his mobile buried in his tool belt. He needed to call Tom.

“Resting in her room,” Amelie said, taking Mabel’s hand. They sat bent together, tears making their cheeks shine. “They were able to control it, to keep her from hurting herself. But they had to sedate her afterwards. It was so sudden. Sitting here with us, Christmas carols on the radio. And then she was on the floor, _convulsing_.” She bent her head, a small sob racking through her body.

Mabel squeezed her arm. “Her boy was here. They must have called him right away.”

Chris sat up. “Tom? Tom was here?”

“Yes. But where he’s gone to, we don’t know. Tess told us Patricia’s in her room alone, resting.”

His phone showed no missed calls or messages. His heart flipped in his chest. Dialing, he waited through a dozen rings before Tom’s voicemail came through. He cursed. “Thank you, ladies. I’ll go check on him. Are you two okay here? Do you need anything?”

Mabel sighed. “Thank you, Little Giant. We’re fine here.”

He left them by the window and skidded out into the hall towards Patricia’s room. He inched the door open, glad for the good oiling he’d given all the hinges. And there she was on the bed, tucked under the blanket. Her hair was loose and fanned around her head. Apart from small murmurings, she was quiet, deeply asleep. And alone. Closing the door, Chris headed down the hall and to his corner of the big house, already doubting Tom was there, as Chris had only just left his office ten minutes before.

“Come on, baby. Where are you?” he muttered as he dialed Tom’s number again with no success.

He searched the entire house, the staff kitchen, the crafts room, even behind the potted plant where they used to share many a private moment away from the eyes of others, but Tom was nowhere. Chris found himself outside in the front parking lot, spinning in circles looking for Tom's car. Could he have gone back to work? Or home? He just didn't think he would leave so soon after as serious an incident as Patricia's seizure. Half tempted to jump in his truck and drive to Tom's flat just to make sure, Chris hesitated, walking around the side of the big house. He followed the now-frozen path toward the gardens. Brittle-branched and sunken, the gardens appeared much smaller under the heavy mounds of snow, without their big canopies of green leaves and plate-sized blooms.

Still, it was clear there wasn't a soul in sight, and there wouldn't be in this weather, Chris argued with himself, pulling his jacket tighter around his body. His wool cap was already sprinkled with fresh snow, but he pushed on, determined to search every inch of the grounds before he was convinced that Tom wasn't there.

Breathing into his gloveless hands, he was rounding the bend of the gardens and starting back to the safety of the veranda when he stopped dead in his tracks. To the far right was the giant weeping willow, whose long and stringy branches hung so low they brushed the snow-laden ground, so thick in some patches that he couldn't see into its interior, where Chris knew sat a wooden bench some of the residents like to rest on during the warmer months. As he took a few steps further on the path, just between the frozen curtain of branches, he saw a figure huddled on the bench, a dark outline that could only belong to a person. Pulse quickening, Chris trudged off the path, his boots starting to soak through with cold moisture. Pushing through the branches, which cracked and broke off as big as icicles at his feet, Chris emerged into the odd inner circle of the willow tree, quiet as the womb, the brown grass untouched by the snow outside its perimeter. His eyes landed immediately on Tom, who sat trembling on the bench, no coat, no jacket, no scarf or gloves, eyes on the ground.

"Goddammit," Chris whispered, running the last few feet that separated them, tearing off his jacket in the process. He sank down beside Tom and tossed his jacket around his shoulders before pulling him against his chest. "What in the hell are you doing out here, babe?"

Tom didn't fight him. He let Chris swaddle him close, burying his face in that warm neck, his nose cold and fingers stiff. "Jesus, you're freezing," Chris said, running his hands down his back for warmth. He sighed. "I heard about Patricia. I'm so sorry, Tom." Tom said nothing, just burrowed closer. If anything, his trembling seemed to have increased, and Chris glanced at the surrounding willow branches, knowing the world of ice that waited beyond that. Tom's skin was so cold.

"This is terrible, what happened," he started. "But she's going to be okay." Although Chris had no guarantee for such a statement. He hadn't spoken to any of the doctors or nurses, but surely she would have been taken to the hospital if it was more serious. "She's resting and she'll be up and about in no time. Making her crafts. Gossiping with Mabel and Amelie."

"Darling," Tom murmured and Chris bent close. Tom's teeth were chattering so badly. "Dr. Charles said it’s probably a sign that the disease is advancing. But there's so much we don't know about this illness, it's hard to tell. I just...I never expect it to be worse. D-does that make sense? I never expect for what we've gone through, as a family, as the only thing we have left to each other, will soon be one more number down, until it's only one or the other. And I'm not ready, Chris. I'm not ready." He dry sobbed and hid his face against Chris's neck. "I've cried so much. I feel it's all out of me. There are no more tears."

"That's because your tear ducts are probably frozen, you stupid, perfect man," Chris said, wrapping him close and rocking him. He kissed his forehead. "Baby, come inside with me. I'll take you home and make you hot chocolate. And over Christmas, we'll come back and spend it with Patricia, and you'll see that she's going to be just fine. Well, as just fine as she's been—."

Tom sat up fast, eyes swollen and nose red. "Over Christmas? Darling, what are you talking about?"

Chris shifted. “I'm staying, Tom. I’ll stay here with you.”

Tom pushed away slightly, alarm widening his eyes. “No, Chris. I can’t ask you to do that. You leave in two days. You have to go see your family.”

Scooting closer still, Chris kept a hand on his arm. “You didn’t ask me. I decided to. And it’s not like my brothers and parents didn’t just see me in the summer before I met you. There will be other holidays. Other vacations. And besides, I love you, Tom. You’re my family, too.”

Tears brimming in his eyes, Tom stared at him, mouth agape, wondering if he’d heard correctly. “What?”

Chris wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “I love you, Tom. I’ve loved you for a long time. And I should have told you months ago. But I’m telling you now. I love you. And you’re going through so much. I can see and feel your hurt. I’m not going to leave you.” He pulled Tom close, cradling his head into his chest. “I won’t. I’ll stay here with you.”

Clinging to him, Tom wept, tears burning hot under his lashes, soaking into Chris’s shirt. Around them the willow branches whistled faintly, the brisk wind seeping through and cutting around their bodies. Chris felt Tom shiver and glanced around again. His own long sleeved shirt wasn't sufficient anymore, and it didn't look like his jacket was doing Tom much good either. But Tom blinked up at him, eyes full and somewhat distant, his long cold fingers grazing Chris's chin.

"Babe, you really don't look too good. Let's get you inside, okay?" This time Tom didn't make a fuss and let Chris pull them to their feet, parting through the willow branches, shattered pieces of ice left in their wake. Together, they stumbled up the lumpy hill and onto the veranda. The air inside the big house was boiling compared to outside, and Tom immediately began sweating, teeth chattering even more violently. Everyone else seemed to be in their rooms because the place was deserted again, reminding him of the movie _The Shining_ just before Jack Torrance went insane behind his creaking typewriter. Just as he was getting spooked, leading Tom through the darkened hallways, he glanced into the great dining hall and saw two attendants bending over the fireplace, fanning the flames. Normally, Chris would have offered his help but Tom was his main priority. And besides, he was technically off the clock now. Tom was mumbling something about Patricia, so they stopped by her room and Tom knelt shakily by her bed to take her hand. He whispered to her quietly as Chris waited by the door, and then bent to kiss her cheek, promising to return soon and that he loved her. He tried standing, but his legs buckled and Chris moved to help him. Tom's strength was sapped and he leaned heavily on Chris as they exited through the side door out to the employee parking lot.

"Where's your car?"

Tom's feet were dragging. "Home. Took the Underground."

"And your mobile?"

Voice so small, "Back at the office. I left in a hurry after Tess called me."

Chris mentally kicked himself for not being there for Tom during what must have been one of the most terrifying moments of his life. But he was with him now, and he would do his best to help him.

Tom climbed into Chris's truck with a weary groan, swaying in place as Chris ran around to his side. Rather than slide over the seat to sit by Chris like usual, Tom lay down and put his head in Chris's lap, eyes drifting closed immediately. Chris blasted the heat, threw the truck in gear and pulled out, keeping a hand on Tom's head to warm it and keep it still. Tom bounced with every bump and turn, moaning softly as if in pain.

“Want me to take you to the hospital?”

Tom’s eyes, unfocused, fluttered open. “What? No…no, darling. I just want…to sleep. I’ll be fine. Just need to rest.”

Already doubting himself, Chris turned toward his own house, which was closer than Tom’s mid-town flat. Still, he had to keep both hands on the steering wheel, careful to hold the truck straight. The winds buffeted against the cab, and even though he was going slowly, his tires spun on one turn and he gritted his teeth, white knuckles standing sharply over the worn leather.

Tom mumbled something, burying his face against his thigh. Chris glanced down, afraid to let the steering wheel go.

“Almost there, babe. Just a few more minutes.”

Outside, a sharp sleet started thrumming heavily against the windshield and Chris began to regret his decision to leave Summer Valley. They could have stayed holed up there in his corner of the house, where a full staff of nurses would be available to them if needed. As it was, Tom seemed to be fading with every passing moment, shivering, teeth chattering. And what had started as a light flurry of snow seemed to be progressing into a full-blown storm. He tried the radio dial to check for any weather reports but gave up after hearing only intelligible bursts of static.

It wasn’t until his condo came into view that Chris unclenched his teeth, relief blooming in his chest at not having driven nose first into a ditch. He shut off the engine and stared down at Tom, who was asleep. He cupped his neck.

“Baby.” No response. “Tom, wake up. Babe?”

Tom stirred, blinking. A flush had settled high on his cheeks, and his eyes, from what Chris could see, were glazed.

He lifted Tom into a sitting position and then opened his door, holding Tom’s hand. “Come this way, babe. Follow me.”

With a small groan, Tom slid out through the driver’s door, Chris supporting most of his weight. His feet touched the ground and he stood shakily, Chris’s jacket looking huge on him. Together, they limped up the path and into the house, where Chris bolted the door and half-carried Tom into the bedroom.

Sitting him on the edge of the bed, Chris began with removing Tom’s wet clothing. Barefoot and clad only in his boxers, Tom’s tremors started up again. Moving fast, Chris tore off his own clothes and pulled back the bedding. He helped Tom lie back and climbed in after him, pulling Tom against him, running his hands over the chilled skin of his back.

“Fuck, babe, you’re cold as ice.”

“’mfine,” Tom whispered, convincing Chris he wasn’t fine at all.

“Just lie here with me. We’ll get you warm soon enough. And then soup later? You want soup?”

Tom hummed faintly and went slowly limp in his arms, falling into a restless doze.

Chris lay with him for over an hour, smoothing back his hair, tracing his thumb over his blue-tinged lips. And he thought that maybe the worst had passed, that all Tom had really needed was a warm bed and some rest. But the fever came so suddenly, lying together in his dark room, the wind howling outside. Chris sunk into a half-slumber, arms loosening and tightening around Tom, finally waking with a gasp to Tom burning up in his arms.

"Shit." Chris scrambled up and leaned over Tom, palming his face, his chest, his belly, but Tom was hot all over, completely unresponsive to Chris's attempts to wake him. The clock read six in the evening, but it could have easily been three in the morning for how dark it was outside his window. He slid out of bed and yanked on the beaded chain of the lamp, gold light flooding the room. Tom lay shivering on his back, his skin dry and heated, a bright flush on his chest and neck.

Chris took his shoulders. "Tom. Come on, love. Wake up. Come on. Don't make me wait out this storm by myself." No response. Chris crowded closer. "Tom. Think about it. We're stuck in here until this weather passes. We can fuck all we want, make love, babe. Eat everything in the fridge, sleep." Tears pricked his eyes and he sucked in a breath, turning away. But the image of Tom's slack face was seared behind his eyelids. "Wake up, baby. Please." He sat back, wondering what to do. How would he fix this? Bring Tom back to him?

He braced his arms on either side of Tom's head and slid his lips over his flaming cheeks, across his lightly freckled nose, kissed each eyelid, smoothed down each eyebrow, until he lay down and pulled Tom into his arms, his panic beginning to crest over him, an ugly wave of red.

"Why did you do it? Why did you go sit out in that cold? It was freezing, Tom." He squeezed him, helpless. "Fuck." He murmured to him, trying to rouse him, but it was no use. Tom was so far under, his fever burning hot against Chris's skin, that he was deaf to Chris. Wiping back his tears, Chris left him on the bed and went to find a pain reliever or fever reducer in his bathroom cabinet. But how would he feed it to Tom? Crushing it in apple sauce, like his mother used to do to him when he was younger?

Nodding to himself, he went to the kitchen and filled a large bowl with cool water, grabbing a couple of washcloths from the pantry on his way back to the bedroom. Even though the heater was blowing from the floor vents, Chris turned on the ceiling fan to even it out a bit. At Tom's side again, he started dabbing the soaked cloth over Tom's face, patting his cheeks and neck down to his chest and fingertips. Still, Tom shook, his sleep fitful. Brows puckered, Tom gave tiny moans from deep in his throat, lashes fluttering but never opening, lips chapped and parted.

"It's alright," Chris whispered gently, watching the droplets of cold water run down Tom's temples and into his damp curls. "I'm here, no need to fidget, love."

But Tom did fidget, long into the night, never waking. Chris did his best to keep his skin cool, but the fever raged on. He stood by the window numerous times, but the snow and sleet wouldn't let up, continuing to rain down onto his tiny backyard, the chairs and table on his porch covered by two inches already, looking like ghosts in the flickering gloom of night. He held Tom and talked to him, kissed his cheeks, ran his hand down the slim line of his waist, holding him there, rocking him. He dug up some vitamin E oil and knelt at the foot of the bed, pressing his lips to the arch of Tom's foot, begging him to wake. He poured a generous amount and rubbed Tom's calves and feet, thinking he’d seen this in a movie once, meant to draw fever away from the head. He alternated with the cold cloth and the foot rubs and the watching at the window. And the hours passed into dawn, freezing and grey, a wasteland of white outside.

At one point he dialed the number to Summer Valley, to check on those still there, but an operating system came over the line, saying to try again later. The storm had done its worst, then.

Chris didn't eat. He didn't sleep. He never left Tom's side, draping cloth after cloth over his trembling body, cursing the fever in his veins, willing it to seep into his own, so that he might carry this burden and not Tom.

Tom's murmuring had increased over the hours, hands fisting weakly in the sheets. He called Chris's name, the faintest rasp, but Chris was there to hear it, hovering. And when Tom's eyes slit open, still glazed with fever, Chris snatched up two pills and the glass of water by the bed, urging Tom to swallow them.

"Just these tiny pills. There you are," he said, supporting Tom's head as Tom swallowed the medicine. "There's my darling boy, thank you, Tom. Thank you."

Tom spluttered and coughed wetly, whining as water spilling down his chin, but the pills were gone and Chris cleaned him up, fighting back his own tears.

"Chris," Tom moaned, hand lifting wildly, closing over thin air.

"I'm here." Chris cradled him in his lap. "I'm here, baby." But Tom was unconscious again, two spots of color bright on his cheeks. The day passed into evening and still Tom suffered under the heavy grip of fever. There was no sun, only low hanging grey clouds that reflected the blinding snow.

The phone lines were still down. Chris began to wonder if he should bundle Tom up in every available blanket and strap him to his back, like the way Native Americans carried their babies, and trek through the snow the handful of miles between his condo and Summer Valley, where someone of medical competence could care for Tom, not someone like him, a blundering idiot.

But just after dusk the second day, it was with a startled gasp that Chris heard coughing from the bed. Spinning, he rushed to Tom's side and stopped just short of hauling him to his chest. He hovered.

"Tom?"

Tom inhaled, and shook his head from side to side. Sweat spotted his brow and upper lip, coated in a light sheen over his chest. Chris bowed his head in relief. The fever was broken.

Two slits of blue and Tom's eyes settled on him.

"Chris?"

Chris laughed, tears blurring his sight. "Yes, baby. Goddammit, you fucking scared me." He bent low and lay a dozen quick kisses all over Tom's sweaty face, Tom blinking up at the ceiling in a daze.

"What happened?" He licked his lips and grimaced. "Water...please."

Chris helped him drink, and then lay more cold cloths over Tom's chest. Tom moaned and sank back against the pillows. Chris explained what happened, finding him under the willow, the drive back to his house. Patricia.

"I didn't just dream it, then," Tom murmured, hands still vibrating softly.

"No." Chris cupped Tom's cheek, relishing in the cooler temperature.

Tom drew his gaze back to Chris, fatigued and still a bit distant. "I'm sorry, Chris. I wasn't thinking straight. I shouldn't have gone out so exposed like that."

"Don't. You don't have to explain, love."

Tom's eyes widened suddenly and his mouth parted. "You...did you...?"

Chris played dumb. "Did I what?"

Tom smiled weakly, bright and with a spark of the mischief Chris so loved about him. "You did," he said, breathless. "You did, my _darling_."

Chris could resist no longer, and pressed his lips to Tom's, slow, softly, tilting his chin up with a finger, suppressing his own shiver at the moan Tom gave, so decidedly different from the moans of pain that had haunted Chris's every hour the last two days.

They broke apart, eyes devouring the other. "Because I love you, too. So much, my darling."

Chris sobbed, smiling, bending again and scooping Tom gently into his arms, pressing him to the bed, laughing suddenly.

"I fucking love you. And I was so worried, Tom. So worried."

Tom brushed his hair back, greasy and hanging in shreds. "You look tired, my love. You didn't sleep."

Chris shook his head, already imagining what he might look like, pale and haggard, bruised-eyed and rank. "Not a wink."

"Then help me with more water and we'll sleep again."

"Fuck that," Chris said, shaking his head. "I am not letting you sleep again. For like three years. It scared me too much," he finished quietly.

"Still," Tom insisted, licking his lips. "I want water. And a shower."

Chris kissed him, and reached for the glass by the bed.

**

The water was hot, but Tom made no protest, stepping under the spray, letting it pour over his face, great big drops beading his shoulders and cleansing him of old sweat. He sighed when it soaked through his curls, reaching up to scratch at his scalp with shaky hands. He was still weak, unsteady on his feet. Chris held his waist, stepping in after him and pulling the shower curtain closed. He helped him bathe, soaping his hair, under his arms, across his chest and around to his bottom. Tom swayed beside him, humming softly, forehead resting on the sharp ridge of Chris's shoulder.

Water shut off and Tom braced against the wall, Chris stepped out to dry himself before returning to help Tom. Chris draped an old football T-shirt from his league days in Australia over Tom's head, pulling it so it hung low over his hips. He guided him back to the bedroom and they lay down again, cuddling and whispering quietly. Tom's stomach rumbled and Chris jumped up to make him his promised food. They ate in bed, sharing a bag of crackers and slurping their tomato soup, eyeing each other over the rim of their bowls and smiling sleepily.

And afterward, empty dishes on the floor beside their abandoned socks and still drying wash cloths, Tom lay flat on his back and let his knees fall open, still a bit dizzy and floating through the sluggish cloud that was only now lifting from his mind. Chris moved between his thighs, steeped in his own drowsiness, but already hard, so hard, Tom couldn't help but stare at it, missing it so much.

A quick squeeze of lube and Chris slipped a finger into him. Tom hissed and his legs closed, skin still so sensitive from his fever. Chris kissed his knees, first one and then the other, and slid his free hand between them, parting Tom's legs anew.

“Easy,” he breathed, watching every wince and lip bite, heart comforted that Tom was awake and well and on the mend. Because Chris couldn’t deny some of the darker thoughts that had plagued him watching Tom writhe on the bed in his fevered stupor; that the fever would hurt him beyond repair, that he would wake and not recognize Chris, that he would die.

But now, seeing the healthy glow of a much less dangerous blush creep into Tom’s face, Chris forgot their fatigue, the past two nights of unrest and illness, the storm that had kept them locked inside. He smothered Tom with all the kisses he’d kept pent up over the last forty eight hours, dragging his teeth down his neck, staring as dark red lines bloomed over his pale skin. Tom shuddered and arched his back, angling his head to expose his throat.

“Leave me a big one. A dark one. My skin…it’s tingling, darling. I feel so…”

“Delicate?” Chris asked, running a hand down his chest, eyes wide.

“Yes. Delicate, yes. And I want to feel your lips on me. Your teeth. It will be…” His eyes drifted closed, imagining. “So wonderful.”

Chris took his jaw and kissed his lips. Slipping his finger into him again, Chris pumped his hand slowly, turning Tom’s head to the side, breathing over the unblemished skin of his throat. When he started sucking, Tom bucked and grabbed his shoulders, emitting a sharp whine that cut straight to Chris’s groin. He held him steady, trying for a second finger and some teeth. Gasps, gasps, Tom’s skin warming again, and it alarmed Chris, this growing heat. Drawing up, he looked him over, but Tom was moaning, legs held wide, muscles tight, and over his throat the wet spot of Chris’s sucking, red and bitten.

Tom blinked and focused on him. “Why did you—.” “Just checking, making sure you're okay,” Chris said quickly, bending over him again and biting deep.

Tom cried out, clenching around his fingers and Chris groaned, squeezing in a third, pumping and sucking, wanting the bruise to last for days. Tom’s hands cupped his head and Chris drew back. Tom’s eyes were glazed, lashes heavy on his cheeks, but still he rolled his hips, Chris’s fingers sliding in deeper.

When Tom whispered his name, Chris nodded and started to move to the edge of the bed, but Tom’s hand shot out, catching his wrist at the last second.

“No.”

Chris frowned. “No?”

Tom swallowed, and winced as he rose to his elbows. “No condom. Just you. I want to feel just you.”

_Fuck fuck fuck_. Chris had no words. He crawled back over Tom and crashed their lips together, his tongue slipping in and touching Tom’s. They moaned and shifted, Chris settling between his legs, their cocks hot and hard. Slicking himself up, Chris saw his own hands were trembling slightly, and he took a deep breath to steady himself. It was happening, he couldn’t believe it. Sex with Tom was beyond what he could ever have imagined—and he’d imagined it a lot before they ever formally met—a myriad of sweet contradictions, rough and gentle, quick fucks before work or languid couplings at midnight in the dark. The condom was for safety, for Tom’s personal and hygienic comfort, but to finally forgo it, to come inside him and feel that pulsing release deep within? Chris started to feel lightheaded.

He took himself in hand and lined himself up with Tom’s entrance. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Tom nodded, hands circling Chris’s forearms, squeezing in reassurance.

The tip of the bulbous head swelled red as he pushed past the muscle of Tom’s hole. He felt the give, the greedy suction, how his cock slipped into that wet heat, hugging his flesh so tightly, and he let his head fall back, groaning.

Tom whimpered and held himself up, panting, watching Chris sink in. The bruise on his throat was shiny with saliva, darkening already, and Chris felt a rush of claiming grip his heart. His hips jutted forward and Tom collapsed back, mouth open.

“Darling,” he breathed, reaching for him. Chris lay his weight on him, trying to still his racing heart.

“You’re shaking,” Tom whispered, cupping his cheek.

Chris gritted his teeth. There was a pulse on his cock and he didn’t know if it was his or Tom’s, but he was dizzy with the need for more.

“I just…” He inhaled, and tried again. “I…I love you. So much.”

Tom smiled wide and pressed kisses to his cheeks. “I love you, too. Move for me, darling. Move, please.”

Hips thrusting forward, Chris set a quick, deep pace, rolling into Tom, every nerve cell lit with the need to go harder, faster. There was no barrier, no thin film that dulled the pleasure of Tom’s body, that captured the true mark of his possession. Just the thought lit a flame in Chris’s belly, and he pummeled in, hips snapping in quick loops. Beneath him, Tom undulated, trying to match him.

“Flip me,” he gasped and Chris narrowed his eyes on him. “Flip me, Chris. Go on.”

Setting his legs gently to the bed, Chris pulled out and took Tom’s waist, turning him onto his stomach. He positioned him on his knees, and Tom held himself up on both hands, looking at him over his shoulder. Chris shoved back in and resumed his rhythm, the loud slap of their skin filling the room, Tom’s small cries making his blood pound faster.

He could feel his orgasm coiling low in his belly, and Chris reached around Tom to fist his cock, hand still slick with lube. They were exhausted, otherwise he would draw this out. But Tom was on the verge of collapse, arms straining, bending slowly until his face was pressed to the mattress. “Come for me,” he urged, pumping his hand faster.

“Come for me and I’ll fill you up, babe. Make you mine. I want you leaking me for days.”

Tom moaned and his eyes flickered open. Under the heady spell of Chris’s whispers and the tight grip on his cock, he shuddered and came hard. Fingers twisted in the sheets, face scrunched, soft cries pouring from his throat, Tom pulsed over Chris’s hand, tightening in a lazy rhythm around his cock. His arms finally buckled and Chris hurried to help him lay flat on the bed. Propping his weight on Tom’s lower back, Chris fucked him deep, pounding hard until with a muted shout, he climaxed, thick spurts of come ribboning into Tom, finally, finally, deep and full and his.

Breath caught in his chest, Chris closed his eyes, a wave of fatigue rolling over him. Tom’s smile grew, lazy and lovely, the shine of white teeth in the blurry light of the lamp.

Chris pulled out and stared, fascinated, as Tom’s hole fluttered closed, a trickle of white seeping out. Pulling Tom to the dry side of the bed, he tucked him into his chest. Tom was already fading fast, but he found the strength to utter one final thing, “You…will never wear…a condom again.”

Chris laughed and pressed their foreheads together. “That’s a promise.”

**

Late the next morning, they finally got through to Summer Valley. The side roads were still unplowed and impassable, but the director assured Chris that everything was fine. The heaters were cooperating and most of the residents were keeping to their rooms, some choosing to spend the time in the great dining hall, where the fireplace was kept roaring while period piece films were played on the projector. Chris asked specifically for Patricia, and the director said that she was feeling much better. She hadn’t had another seizure, but had been ordered by the doctor to keep off her feet and rest as much as possible.

“She listened to that for about five minutes before we found her in the crafts room picking out a color pattern for some socks she wants to knit for her Tom,” the director laughed, sounding tired.

Tom, who was listening in, touched his chest, face softening. Chris’s eyes flicked down to Tom’s throat, where his hickey had turned dark purple.

“I’ll be in as soon as I can,” Chris promised, before hanging up.

They drove in together that evening. Tom, wearing a dark green scarf to cover his neck, kept a tight grip on Chris’s elbow as the truck pitched and slid down the recently plowed and salted streets, whispering to please be careful, go slower, that they were going to die in that blasted metal bullet. Only once safe in the warm hallways of Summer Valley, did Tom exhale and let Chris go.

Patricia was in her room, sitting up in bed, her blanket tucked snugly around her feet. Surrounding here were balls of yarn, her knitting needles clacking over the sound of some old timey sultry crooner coming from the iPod stand by her bed.

“Darlings,” she cried when they knocked. She started to rise, but Tom hurried to her side.

“No, no! Please stay put, Gran.” He sat beside her and took her hand. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m better, love. My jaw is still a little sore. Dr. Charles said I clamped down when the seizure hit me. Thank goodness I didn’t bite my own tongue.” She touched her cheek, brow furrowing. But then she peered at him closer. “But you, Tom? You look a bit peaky. Are you unwell?”

She glanced between him and Chris, worried.

Tom patted her hand. “I’m fine. Fell a bit under the weather just when the storm hit. Chris was with me. He took care of me.” He blushed, glancing up at Chris, realizing words could mean more than one thing. Chris winked at him and brought two chairs from the window to the bed. Patricia resumed her knitting, studying Tom’s feet before adjusting her needles.

“I was so scared,” Tom admitted quietly, fingers tightening around Chris’s palm. Patricia turned to him.

“Afraid of what, my love?”

“That day you…the day you had your seizure. I thought I was going to lose you.”

She sighed and set her knitting down. “My darling, whatever this is inside my brain, what it will do to me, it’s already begun. And it’s only going to get worse." She removed her glasses. "I have dreams, you know. Dreams of your parents, dreams of my parents, dreams of people I haven’t thought of in years. It’s like a cache of memories has just suddenly sprung open and is flooding my mind, taking center stage, forcing out the people who are my here and now. You, Tom. And Chris. And Mabel and Amelie. You are my here and now, and whatever is slowly taking over me, I can sense it's winning. The dreams are so profound, so colorful, that I confuse them with what's happening when I'm awake. I see you. I don't see you. It's all so...disconcerting."

_That's putting it lightly_ , Tom thought. He couldn't imagine what Patricia went through every day, trying to sort through the past, through the present, through her mind deleting entire people and her experiences with them from her memories. He realized with suddenly clarity, how brave his grandmother was, to face that fright, that confusion with her inherent joy and patience. No doubt a testament to her upbringing, this still remarkable feat of good faith and strength of character amazed Tom.

He turned to Chris, squeezing his hand. "I'm learning not to be afraid," he said softly. "I'm learning that accepting love doesn't mean to prepare for its ending. Because love is about soaking it in in the present, about what it means to remember how its completed you in the past, and believing in all the possibilities it might bring you in the future. I'm learning this," he said, heart throbbing gently at the soft, private look Chris gave him. "With every breath."

Patricia had a hand on her chest, gazing at him. "I adore you, my Tom. And I can see Chris loves you greatly. You needn't worry about that," she said, smiling.

Chris and Tom looked at each other and they both blushed.

"Besides," she said, picking up her knitting again. "I fully plan on outliving you both."

She laughed and they joined her, leaning back in their seats. Outside, a light rain had started. They gray evening had blended into a moonless night, the parking lot lights illuminating the recent snowfall, almost blinding. When Tom turned back to Patricia, she was staring oddly at Chris, a hand on her chin. Tom glanced between the two, Chris smiling at her softly, as if knowing.

And really, deep down, Tom did too.

Her smile wavered, head tilted to the side, and she reached out a hand, as if unsure he was really there.

"Christoph?"

 

 

 

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! Hope you all enjoyed this AU :) Thanks so much for all the love!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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